


secrets strange and sinister

by ohevans (lamisdelabc)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, I'd die for Christine Daae, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Universe- ALW Musical, and an excuse to explore christine's feelings during this fuckery, and consider how she might have wound up in this literal nightmare, because i LOVE him with my WHOLE heart, christine's relationship with the phantom is FUCKED UP amirite or, i will champion raoul until the day i die, nothing graphic this is mostly character based, raoul's only crime was loving christine too much thanks for coming to my ted talk, so i can have an excuse to write a bunch of shit w raoul, this is a fic about christine/raoul, this is an expansion on the musical essentially, when i say phantom/christine i do not mean phantom/christine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 121,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamisdelabc/pseuds/ohevans
Summary: Stranger things have happened.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story in several parts.

The first time he comes to her, it is dark. She is kneeling, a supplicant, upon the stone floor of the chapel in the back of the Opera, head bowed, hands clasped, before the statue of an angel. It is easy for her to forget and to remember, here. Here, she is far from the racket of the ballerinas and chorus girls. Here, she is alone with her thoughts and her ghosts. She strikes a match, lights a candle. For a moment the flame stutters, but she does not think twice of it. The air is damp, it has rained. The stones below the leaking window are stained by the water from the street, and the only sound that disturbs the silence of the chapel is that of the water dripping to the floor.

It has been two years. Two years since her father died; two years since her blissful childhood disappeared with a sharp _snap_ ; two years since she became an orphan. Two years since she last heard him play, though it feels like an eternity. Two years since Madame Giry had taken her in. In two years she has improved her dancing by miles, taught her the virtues of straight legs and pointed toes, and how to properly stand in a pointe shoe. Madame Giry has taught her so much, but she knows in her heart that she was never meant to be a ballerina. She remembers her father telling her she had a gift, that her voice was meant to move the hearts of even the most stoic of men. It has been two years since she believed him. 

The cold of stone floor seeps into her skin and sends a shiver across her spine. She can feel the bruises on her knees purpling from her hour spent on the ground. Camille and Ophelia had teased her just that morning in the dressing room as she pulled her stockings over her legs. “And just who has got you spending all that time on your knees, hm?” they had asked. She had not answered, and Meg and sent her a sympathetic look. Meg has always understood, with no father of her own and a mother with a hundred other preoccupations, how lonely she has been. It has been two years of the two of them against the rest of the world, snickering under the covers in one of their dormitory beds and terrorizing the Opera’s resident cats.

She is praying silently. She always prays silently. She has been praying silently for two years. She finds she is getting bored of praying silently.

“Father,” she whispers. “Father, I miss you. It has been two years today, can you believe that? It hasn’t gotten any easier. I miss you every day. I am a terrible ballerina. My legs aren’t long enough, and you know I have always been so clumsy. Do you remember when we went to the seaside, and there was the accident with the vase? Raoul said he broke it playing hide-and-seek with me, but the truth is that _I_ broke it. Raoul was such a gentleman, to confess to my crime. But now I think that you would have laughed, because you had told me just the night before that you thought the vase terribly ugly.

“Oh Father, I wish you weren’t gone. Sometimes in my dreams you are there, speaking. You always tell me the same thing: that you will send me the Angel of Music. I have been so lonely without you. Meg is wonderful, she’s my dearest friend, but I miss _you._ I miss you singing me to sleep, and I miss when you would play the violin and let me sing along, even though I never knew the right notes. I rarely sing much anymore, Father. It hurts too much. I sing only what I must.

“It’s my birthday today, but I know that you remember that. Do you remember when I turned thirteen, and we walked along the Seine and you bought me a rose at every flower stall we passed? And then you took me to the Opera. It was _Don Giovanni,_ and you told me you thought Mozart was the most brilliant man to ever write music. I stared at the stage and all I could think was _someday, that will be me._ And after we went home I sang all the time, so much that I think it must have driven you crazy, to hear me singing at all hours of the day, but you never complained. You said I had _gift,_ you said that I _had_ to sing. I don’t know anymore, Father. You said you would send me my Angel of Music, but where is he? Where are you? I need my Angel, Father, I’m so alone.”

She pauses, and is met with only silence. She breathes again, resumes.

“I thought I might sing for you today, Father. Nothing much, but you used to love it when I sang.”

The stone floor is cold. Her knees are bruising. The candle is flickering. She begins to sing, nothing much, but he used to love it when she sang. So she sings the _Ave Maria._ Memories flood her mind and body, and the notes reverberate in the chapel, rising and falling like the tide or the clouds or her breath. It is nothing much, but he used to love it when she sang. For one moment, with her eyes closed and her lungs full of music once more, it is possible to forget all of her sadness and her loneliness, and she imagines she can hear the footsteps of her father in the back of the chapel. She sits up straighter, because she knows he would reprimand her for her posture. She takes a deeper breath, puts her hand to her diaphragm like he used to, and for a minute she imagines she can feel his hand over it, like a ghost. She stands and almost feels his movements echo hers, the comforting presence of her father enveloping her in a way she hasn’t felt in two years.

But like all things, the song too must come to an end. She reaches the final measure and ends with a quiet breath. It is a moment before she remembers that she is singing to an empty room, and her father’s enthusiastic applause, his cries of _“Brava, brava, bravissima!”_ will never grace her ears again. She sits in the silence, revels in the weight of it, and finds that _this_ silence is somehow less than all the other silences there have been in the two years since her father died. This silence feels less silent, as if there is still music humming on the air around her, or perhaps humming on the air within her.

“Christine!”

Meg’s voice is all the more piercing in the chapel, but it is not that that makes her start. It is the second voice that follows, the one which is softer than the rolls of silk in the costume room.

 _Christine…_  

“Father?” she whispers. She knows that is not her father’s voice, though. Her father’s voice was rough like sea salt against her skin on the coast, and this voice is the opposite. It is familiar—so familiar—but she can’t quite place where she has heard it before. It has a gentle lilt to it, almost like it is singing those simple two syllables to a tune she’s never heard. This voice brings her a curious sense of calm, right in her chest, that washes over her head to toe and makes her so dizzy she has to grab the pew for support. She wants to hear it again.

“Christine! Where are you, Mother says it is time to rehearse and that if you are late, we will all be running laps around the theatre for the entire first act!”

 _Christine…_  

“Father? Is that you?” she whispers, more urgently. Something catches her eye in the corner of the room, a patch of shadow darker than the rest, and she stares. She could swear the shadow moves, but it doesn’t make a sound.

Meg hurtles around the door, clutching a stitch in her side. “Christine! Didn’t you hear me, Mother said– What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

Christine looks at Meg, and there’s a moment where she hesitates, but Meg has never kept anything from her in their short friendship. If there is one person in this whole place who won’t think she’s crazy, it’s Meg.

“I heard a voice,” she whispers.

To her surprise, Meg, if anything, looks even more terrified than Christine feels. “A voice? Here? With you?” Meg whirls around, searches the corners of the room, and it is this fear in the place of Meg’s usual brashness that makes Christine keep what she could have sworn she _saw_ from her friend.

“I– It must have been nothing,” Christine says, more to herself than to Meg, who looks at her warily. “I must just be tired.”

Neither of them say what is on their mind—Buquet’s stories about a masked Phantom, an Opera Ghost, who kills with a magical lasso. Christine has been writing off the drunk’s silly tales since she arrived. They’re only something to frighten the dancers and the chorus girls, explanations for broken props and misplaced costumes and other odd occurrences that just seem to _happen_ around the Opera. Christine’s eyes slide back to the corner of the chapel, but the shadow seems to be just that—a shadow.

“Come on,” she says, taking Meg by the hand and tugging her out of the room. “We don’t want to be late.”

They end up running laps around the theatre for all of act one for their tardiness, and the other ballerinas grumble and complain about this. There’s so much to do in the lead up to _Rigoletto_ that Christine finds it hard to think about the voice in the chapel at all, though she can’t forget the strange sense of calm it brought her when it spoke. But, she thinks, she must have been tired. It has been a long month, and she misses her father. It is only natural she should hear his voice when she is in the chapel. Stranger things have happened.

 _That was not Father’s voice, and you know it,_ her own conscience whispers. _That was the voice of an angel._

In the end, on the bright stage lights, it is easy to forget the chill of the chapel and the legend of the Opera Ghost. Buquet tells stories to frighten the girls to his bed. People believe them because strange things _do_ happen around the Opera, but Christine can’t imagine these occurrences are more common at this Opera than they are at any other Opera. Every theatre has its ghost, that doesn’t make them real. Theatres are superstitious places, after all.

If she swears she can feel eyes watching her as she makes her way from the chorus dressing room that night, she doesn’t think anything of it.

 

* * *

 

The second time he comes to her, it is in a dream. Another month has slipped by, and Christine has been avoiding the chapel. Not because she is scared, she tells herself, of some Opera Ghost who doesn’t even have the courage to be a proper ghost and show himself, but because she is busy. There is always something to be done at the Opera, and if she is going to earn her keep and make Monsieur Lefevre take notice of her, she is willing to do it all. So she dances, she sings, she sews costumes and scrubs floors and mends props. Life at the Opera is always busy, and the pain in her chest at the thought of her father is no longer sharp, but now more of a dull ache. She can’t imagine that will ever fade.

She is promoted to chorus girl, and she finds that it is nice to stretch her voice again. It’s like when her father taught her to ride a bike, with no care for the fact that little girls should not be riding bikes but learning to sew and to manage households. Singing again, even if it is just for the chorus, feels like breathing, and it is a relief to pour her heart into something that isn’t the aching void left in her chest where her father used to be. She has not heard that voice since the chapel, but a small part of her hasn’t stopped hoping. Sometimes when the Opera is quiet she strains to hear, but the Opera is rarely quiet, and the voice has not returned.

It is after a particularly long day of rehearsals that Christine, hair still wet from a bath, is sleeping in the dormitory she shares with Meg and several other girls from the Opera. The room is dark and silent and the city is quiet. She is dreaming, like she often does, of summertime. There is sunshine, and the seaside, and her father is there. He is playing the violin and the music fills her soul with warmth. It is so beautiful, sunlight seems to come from his very skin. The music seems to touch her very soul, though it is not anything she’s ever heard. Somewhere, a voice begins to sing, and this voice is so familiar it makes her heart ache and her bones tingle. Christine stares at the image of her father, whose lips are not moving. He is intent upon the music as he plays the violin but it seems to fade, a supporter for this fantastic voice. The melody is haunting and loving and beautiful and terrifying all at once. There is something slightly menacing to it, but the same inexplicable sense of calm has soothed her weary soul as when she heard the voice in the chapel. She can’t stop listening, she hopes this dream never ends, she thinks, as she stares at her father’s face and listens to the man singing. The music is in her mind, it’s in her bones, it’s in her head and in her heart and in her _soul._

She doesn’t remember waking in the dark dormitory in the back of the Opera house. Everything is silent all around her, save for Meg’s breathing in the bed next to her and the muffled snores of Victoire by the door. Christine holds her breath, closes her eyes, strains her ears, and is met with silence until– there! She swears she can hear it, not only in her head but in her mind, but in her bones, and in her head and in her heart and in her soul, and with a leap of joy and the same striking clarity of a bolt of lightning or a cold gust of wind, she realizes it’s the voice, the _voice, the_ voice, _the voice_ she has been remembering since that night in the chapel a month ago. Her memories pale in comparison to this, the reality, that fills her chest with incomprehensible warmth and joy.

“Angel?” She whispers, fearful to wake her sleeping companions. “Angel, is it you?”

_Christine, Christine…_

She hesitates only a moment before she makes up her mind and throws back the covers. The cold floor is a shock to her bare feet, and she really should know better than to wander around the Opera without slippers, but her brain is cloudy with sleep and with that _music,_ and she spares her chilled toes no thought as she creeps silently past the other girls.

There is no way to follow the music because it is coming from everywhere and from nowhere; Christine swears that it’s really coming from right _inside her,_ but that isn’t much of a direction either. So she sets off in the direction of the chapel because that feels right, her feet seemingly moving without her guidance, and with every step the voice seems to draw her closer, hooked behind her breast and pulling her ever forward like a fish on a line. She can discern words, now, instead of just that haunting melody, and she wants nothing more than to listen. 

_I am your Angel of Music… Come to me, Angel of Music..._

“Angel?” she whispers, when she finally reaches the chapel. “Angel, can you hear me?”

_I am your Angel of Music… Come to me, Angel of Music…_

“Angel, I’m here!” she cries, a little louder. “Angel of Music, speak, I listen!”

The singing stops and this time, when the voice speaks, it comes from without rather than within.

“I am your Angel of Music, child,” it says, and it is the velvet of the curtains of the main stage. Christine would do anything to hear it again.

“Did my father send you?” she whispers into the darkness.

“I have been waiting for you,” the Angel replies.

Suddenly fear floods her body. She is twelve, seated on the floor at her father’s feet before the fire with Raoul, listening while he plays violin and tells her stories of the Angel of Music between songs. She is fourteen and her father is dying—not that she knows that—clutching her hand. His skin is sweaty beneath her own, but his eyes are filled with a remarkable lucidity that has never wavered, even in these long months that she has watched him wane. He is whispering something secret and strange to her, _When I’m in heaven, child, I will send you the Angel of Music,_ and she is nodding and humming because it soothes him. She is seventeen, kneeling on the chapel floor, at the mercy of this strange secret. She is overcome by the sudden urge to run.

“Do not run,” the Angel says, and it is as if Christine has been nailed to the floor like Christ to the cross. She could not run, even if she tried. She finds she does not want to. “I am your Angel of Music, guide and guardian, I am here to protect you.”

“Where have you been?” She whispers. It is hard not to be angry at this strange Angel for hiding all this time. “I thought my father abandoned me.” 

“Watching,” says the Angel, “waiting.”

“Why have you come, now?”

“You have a gift,” the Angel says, and Christine thinks her father _must_ have sent him. Her father always said she had a gift. “I’ve come to help you.”

“To help me?”

“To teach you, child.”

“How, Angel?”

“Sing for me,” he says, and it sends a shiver down Christine’s spine. “Sing for me and I shall give you music. I shall give you this Opera, Paris, the world. Sing for me, and you shall never be alone.”

The thought of never being alone again entices her, but there’s a part of her that protests. She has heard the stories. A malevolent Ghost, they say, a predator who stalks the halls of the Opera. “Are you the Phantom?” she asks, before she can stop herself.

“I am your Angel,” her Angel says, and Christine believes it. Neither ghosts nor phantoms nor wicked men have the voice of an Angel. “Sing for your Angel.”

She doesn’t realize she is speaking until the words have tumbled out of her lips. “I’ll sing for you.”

“Good, child,” her Angel says, and Christine does not realize that she has been holding her breath. His praise, even so simple, means _everything._ “You will sing for me, and only for me, Christine.”

“I will sing only for you,” she repeats.

“You will sing for me, and I will protect you.” Those words bring a warmth to her that seems impossible in the cold of the chapel. She has been alone, unguided, lost for so long. The idea of having a protector again brings a comfort to her soul. It is a long time before she notices that her Angel is singing again. It is a short time before she notices that she is singing with him, though she has never heard these words.

When she wakes, it’s to Meg making a racket next to her about a mouse that had been asleep in her slipper. Christine shakes her head to clear it of sleep, but finds she can’t rid herself of the melody that has wormed its way into her mind, her bones, her head and her heart and her soul. She feels hazy.

If the single red rose—still with its thorns—tied with a black velvet bow she finds on her nightstand alarms her, she doesn’t let it show. She only hides it in the drawer under cover of Meg’s commotion before any of the other girls can notice.

 

* * *

 

The third time he comes to her, it is in the form of a note. The note sits upon a vanity made of intricately carved wood, gilded. There is a matching chair, tucked below the vanity, and a chaise of red velvet. There is a mirror, nearly twice as tall as she is high, set into the wall in an ornate frame of golden roses. They look so real, she half thinks she will prick her finger on the thorns. The room is barren but for the furniture, but Christine does not notice, much less care.

“This is for me?”

“I think you will find you have more privacy here than in the dancers’ room,” Madame Giry says. She has not entered the room, but stands in the doorway, her cane clasped in front of her.

She’s certainly right. _This_ dressing room is farthest from the stage. But Christine cannot complain, because it is a _dressing room_ in the _Opera_ in _Paris_ and it belongs to _her_ and this is what she has been dreaming of for two years, since her father died and she came to this place. Her Angel is real, really real, and doing all he promised.

Christine stares in the mirror. “But surely Carlotta’s understudy—”

“Will continue to use the room that has been assigned to her. Meanwhile _you_ shall take this one, which has found itself vacant, as of late.”

“But I’m just a chorus girl.”

“I think we can expect great things from you, Miss Daaé,” Madame Giry says. “ _He_ certainly does.”

Christine turns sharply at this, but Madame Giry is already gone. Christine hesitates, then crosses the room and closes the door behind her. She closes her eyes, rests her back against the door. This has happened so fast. Her Angel did not lie, in only days he has opened doors she had thought would remain firmly closed and locked forever, but now she is here and she feels strange. She takes a steadying breath, and then another. The room is not spinning this time when she opens her eyes and the note on the vanity catches her gaze. It is addressed to her, in red ink.

_Dear Christine,_

_I think you will find this space suitable for our lessons. You are to be here at eight o’clock in the evenings, sharp, every day, unless there is a performance or I have instructed otherwise. You are to be alone. You are not to tell anyone._

_We begin tomorrow. Do not be late._

_I remain your humble servant, and teacher,_

_Your Angel of Music_

The writing is thin, slanted, and perfectly straight. Christine runs her fingers across the letters, and she can almost feel the music in her fingers.

“I know you can hear me, Angel,” she says, surprising herself. “Thank you. I won’t be late, I promise.”

If her heart skips a beat in the silence, she calls it triumph, rather than trepidation.

 

* * *

 

The fourth time he comes to her, it is a lesson. She has been so careful not to be late, and to slip away unnoticed. She was able to dodge Meg before her friend could even ask where she was going, and she has locked the door. Her heart is beating loudly in her chest. So loudly she imagines her Angel will be able to hear it, and he will think her afraid of him.

She is, but she won’t say that out loud.

Of course, she has been reminding herself all day, it is only natural to fear what she cannot see. Her Angel has been so giving, so kind, that perhaps he will understand this.

“You look pale,” is the first thing he says, and Christine starts.

“I do not,” Christine retorts. This is a lie.

“I did not realize I had asked a question,” her Angel says, but it sounds as if he is laughing behind the words. “Are you alright?” he asks, and his voice is gentle.

“Yes,” Christine says.

“Did you sleep last night?” he asks.

“Like a babe,” Christine answers. This is a lie. For a week her dreams have been plagued by thoughts of ghosts and of fathers, but her Angel has been nowhere to be found. It has made her restless.

“You are lying,” her Angel says, and Christine hears a chilling edge in the words. It makes her feel like she has plunged into a cold bath. “Do not lie to your Angel, Christine.”

She bites her lip and hangs her head. “I am sorry, Angel. No, I have not been sleeping well.”

“Why is that, child?” her Angel asks.

“My thoughts have grown too loud,” she whispers, “and I am scared.” This is not a lie. When her Angel is absent from her dreams, her head fills with terrible nightmares instead. She tosses and turns and wakes up in a cold sweat, swearing she can feel someone standing over her.

“You have nothing to fear,” he says. “So long as you are mine, no harm shall come to you.”

“I trust you, Angel,” she says, and she finds she means it.

If she feels the heat of eyes watching her upon her shoulders, she thinks nothing of it. Someone is always watching at the Opera.

 

* * *

 

After the next time he comes to her, he never seems to leave. Her world has not been silent since their strange lessons began. Even when it is quiet, she hears music. Always music, always in her mind, swirling around all her thoughts so they roll and tumble and lose themselves. Sometimes there are words, her Angel speaking to her, and that is the most soothing of all. He promises that she is not alone, that he will protect her, that he will guard her and guide her. When she rehearses for the show she hears his voice remind her to stand up straight, and breathe from her belly rather than her shoulders. She hears him whispering _sing for me, angel,_ as she reaches for a note higher. Hears him whispering _that will be you_ as Carlotta destroys another aria. He tells her secrets, about the other members of the Opera, about Monsieur Lefevre, about the patrons; she does not ask where he learns these things. There are moments of clarity, long hours she goes without hearing his voice or his music or feeling his eyes watching over her, and it seems her Angel has disappeared altogether. These, she finds, are the worst of all. When she comes to her senses she feels more alone than ever before, after growing so used to his comforting presence. She misses him. The world is bright and harsh and the Opera is full of people who could harm her– Carlotta being the least of them. Her Angel protects her, and she is thankful.

Their lessons continue. She looks forward to them, counts down the hours from when she wakes to when she will see him again. Her Angel visits her throughout the day and the night—in her dreams, in her _mind_ —but he never feels so close as when she is singing in dressing room thirteen. She always stands with her back to the grand mirror, towards the vanity, with the smaller mirror here turned to face the wall.

“Why can’t I look at myself when I sing?” she asks, the first time her Angel instructs her to do this.

“Because you will grow complacent in your expressions. Sing first, pour your heart into it, and the expressions will follow,” he says.

“But what if I look mad instead of sad? Or happy instead of angry?”

“Has your Angel failed you yet, Christine?” When he asks this, she knows the conversation is over. Her Angel does not leave room for foolish questions.

Her Angel is a genius, her voice does things she never knew it could do. Singing makes her feel _alive_ again, and instead of reminding her of her father, it begins to remind her of her Angel. Not that the two are so different. Her Angel comes from her father, she knows this. She finds herself singing often, in the bath, as she sews, while she is reclining on the chaise in her dressing room. Always alone, unless she has a rehearsal or a performance. And when she goes on stage, he is always there, in her breath and in her mind.  

She ends up with a small solo in _Giulio Cesare._ It is nothing so important, but it is enough that the thought of it makes her heart jump to her throat and stop any voice altogether. She cannot imagine singing to all those people, and she tells her Angel as much, one night.

“But you are singing for me, and only me, no, Christine?”

This is soothing, of course, as he always is. “Yes, Angel,” she says, “but I cannot see you in the crowd.”

“Sing,” he says, “and I will hear. I will always hear, Christine.”

_Sing for me, Angel of Music!_

She sings for him, and nothing else in the world seems to matter. The lights dim and the edges grow blurry, other voices and sounds become faded and indistinct. There is no one in the crowd but him—and for some inexplicable reason she finds herself drawn to Box Five. It is empty, it is always empty, she knows this, but an empty box is as good a place for an Angel as everything. The rest of the theatre ceases to exist entirely, it seems for those four measures of music and forever. Everything pales in comparison to her Angel, her faceless Angel. He is a comforting presence always, like the gentle wait of a cloak upon her back, or the feeling of her father’s hands against her skin. He is a warm drink in her throat, settling in her stomach. A balloon in her chest that lifts her above the rest of the chaos of the Opera house. She is not alone anymore.

If she ever finds herself yearning for a bit of emptiness in her own head, she quiets that part of herself quickly. Her soul yearns only for him, always for him.

 

* * *

 

The first time she disobeys him, he is gentle. There are rules to this relationship, of course. No dealings with angels come without stipulations. They are easy enough to follow: She is not to be late, she is not to argue, she is not to sing for anyone else. Most importantly, she is not to betray her Angel.

It has been weeks, now, that this arrangement has been going on. She spends hours in her dressing room because his voice always seems loudest there, and it’s where she can guarantee they will not be overheard. Nobody, not even Meg, is allowed in dressing room thirteen with her, save for her dresser. Sometimes she sleeps there. They’ve fallen into a routine: Christine goes about her days at the Opera, rehearsing and performing and entertaining as she must, but does not go beyond that. In the evenings she returns to dressing room thirteen, where her Angel is always waiting. She savors these conversations, when they aren’t singing and they aren’t in her head. She loves to sing for her Angel, and she loves to hear his voice lull her to sleep or to waking, but speaking in the dressing room he almost seems as if he is there, outside her mind. He sounds close enough to touch. Here, they can talk about everything that has happened, and all the things that haven’t. She tells him about her childhood, her father, the Operas she loves, and he, in turn, shares with her his music. It is moments like these when the line between Angel and Father seems blurred. She speaks to him with the same sort of ease with which she spoke to her father, and his responses are always gentle, kindly, nurturing. She wonders if the Angel of Music _is_ her Father. He seems to discipline like a father.

“Angel,” she says one day, closing her eyes and falling dramatically on the chaise after a particularly grueling lesson.

“Angel?” he replies, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“Why must I always stay here?” she knows she sounds like a petulant child, but she cannot help it. She is not lonely, but she craves freedom. It has been so long since she has felt free, and she is growing restless.

“Because I can protect you here,” her Angel says, and there is a note of finality to his tone.

Christine ignores it, a spark of anger flaring in her chest. “I want to go to supper with the rest of the chorus.”

“No,” he says, simply.

“Yes,” she replies, her anger growing.

“ _No,_ Christine,” he says again, and this time his voice is angry. She knows she is pushing her luck now, but she does not care. Her anger is like a small flame in her heart, and it is dizzying in how fast it grows. She is angry and she wants out, to spend time with Meg and to remember what it feels like outside the Opera house.

“I will,” she says, and crosses the room. For one glorious moment it seems as though she has won this battle, and he is going to let her go. She marches through the halls

_I am your Angel of Music… Come to me, Angel of Music…_

Her mind goes blank, and she pauses, suddenly uncertain of where she was going to begin with. Her knees turn to liquid, the room begins to tilt and she catches herself on the wall. The only sound in the world that matters is that voice, and that he never stop singing. She feels herself slipping, but is powerless to stop it. She remembers turning around, taking two steps back towards her dressing room, and pitching sideways against the wall again. She does not remember reaching dressing room thirteen, or falling to the floor, but when she wakes, she is on the chaise, a blanket draped across her. Her knees are sore. The clock on her vanity says it is two o’clock in the morning. Well past supper.

“Christine,” says her Angel, firmly. His voice is closer now than ever before. She reaches out a hand, and is met with empty air. “Do not disobey me again.”

“Yes, Angel,” she says.

“Good girl,” he replies.

“Will you sing to me, Angel?” she asks, and she knows she still sounds like a child but she is scared of waking up alone in the dark, with no memory of how she got there.

He obliges. He sings her the lullaby from her dreams, some gentle music of the night that exists only in her dreams. She closes her eyes and the world blossoms before her darkened lids.

If she felt a hand on her cheek, or a pair of arms beneath her back before she fell asleep, she does not remember in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The second time she disobeys him, he is chilling.

She is not to fraternize with Opera guests and eligible young bachelors, her Angel tells her. All they are looking for is someone who will keep their sheets warm at night, and Christine is better than that. She does not argue. She will not betray her Angel, who has done so much for her. Who sings her to sleep and who has molded her voice into the best in the chorus. Who has inspired her to sing again, to reach new heights, to become bold and powerful and captivating.

She is beautiful, though, and beautiful things seldom remain unsullied. There is a flirtation with a boy in the chorus, a tenor with dark hair and brown eyes and warm hands. He finds any excuse to stand next to her during rehearsals, and to brush her skin backstage. He bats his eyelashes and when he corners her in the wings one evening after a late rehearsal, his breath against her neck makes her head spin so much that it drives all thoughts of her Angel from her mind. He smells like a mixture of sweat and cloves and her head, far from feeling clear in the absence of her Angel’s voice, feels as if it is swimming through molasses. When he kisses her it isn’t unpleasant, but it isn’t everything she ever dreamed, and she feels clumsy. He assures her that it’s okay, she’ll get the hang of it, and gives her a parting kiss before he leaves to go change. Christine stands for a moment, suspended the cloud of disbelief and the rush of a kiss. It is several long heartbeats before she realizes the time, and is overcome with a rush of guilt and fear.

She rushes to dressing room thirteen and finds it cold. Somehow, she can feel her Angel is not there. A note on her vanity confirms this.

_There will be no lesson tomorrow. Consider this your last warning: Do not disobey me again._

_The Angel of Music_

She misses her lullaby so sorely that night that it keeps her awake for hours. Her thoughts are horrendously loud and discordant, like terrible notes on an out of tune piano. The clarity of the world around her serves as a stark reminder of how alone she is in this place, and she yearns to be lost in the feeling of her Angel once more. He ignores her for two days, and curiously, strange things seem to happen around the Opera. The tenor’s costume goes missing; he is scolded furiously by Madame Claude and a franc is taken from his week’s pay. Carlotta’s dressing room is ransacked, makeup spilled everywhere and the furniture torn up; she rages and rails against anyone stupid enough to stand in her way, screeching about the Opera Ghost until Monsier Lefevre promises to station a security guard outside her door. Christine barely notices these things; she feels weary. Sounds are too loud, lights too bright, edges too harsh. She tosses and turns and spends three sleepless nights alternating between the chaise and pacing before she finally gives up and slips out of dressing room thirteen. She is almost back to her dormitory, where she hasn’t slept in weeks, when she turns a corner and runs into the tenor.

“Hello there,” he says. His voice is an octave too low. “What are you doing, wandering about so late?”

“I was praying,” Christine says primly—pretends not to notice how easily the lie comes to her lips—and makes to step around him.

“Good of you,” says the tenor, leaning in. He is too close, his arms are a cage around her against the wall. His breath smells sweet. One of his hands drops to her waist, and her breath hitches. It slides lower, to her hip, her thigh, she is painfully aware of the thin fabric of her dressing gown. “And what does God say?” he whispers. “Will He absolve you from your sins?” Christine closes her eyes, turns her head away while his nose presses against the skin of her neck.

“I believe that is a matter between He and I,” she says, pushing against the tenor. He does not yield. “Excuse me, I would really like to go to bed now.”

“Why the rush?” he says. His hand is wandering back up her leg, and she kicks at him. “Watch it,” he says.

“Get off,” she says, firmly now.

“Oh come on, Daaé, why are you being such a prude? All the other girls do it, do you think you’re better than the rest of them, just because you’ve got the Ghost on your side?”

This catches her like a slap. She has not thought of her Angel as the Ghost since he became her teacher. She is so distracted by this, she does not notice the proximity of his hand to the tie of her dressing gown, and it is undone before she can stop him. His hands are crawling across her abdomen, only her thin chemise preventing skin on skin, and Christine pushes with more insistence, but the tenor does not heed her and his hand creeps up to her breast, his leg forces hers apart, and she comes back to reality quickly.

“Get _off,”_ she says again, pushing at his shoulders, “get off or I’ll—”

“Or what? You’ll set your Ghost on me? He doesn’t scare me,” the Tenor laughs, and Christine feels sick to her stomach.

“Pity,” says a voice, and it is so angry, so loud, so laced with venom and fire that Christine almost doesn’t even recognize it as the voice of her Angel. She claps her hands over her ears and drops to the ground as the tenor whirls around. Whatever he sees must terrify him, because he runs down the hallway and does not look back.

“Angel?” Christine says. She feels a presence, but her heart is beating so loud she thinks it might burst her veins, and she can’t bring herself to open her eyes.

“Yes, Christine,” comes the voice, without any heat or sharpness, like a warm handed extended in the darkness. A wave of comfort and relief washes over her, and Christine wants to throw her arms around the faceless Angel.

“Angel, I’m so sorry,” she says, the words tumbling from her lips in such a rush they become indistinguishable from the tears. “I’m so sorry I never thought– I didn’t know– I’ll never–”

“Hush, child,” he says, “I will protect you. I have never left you.”

She cannot find it in herself to move, but the terror and the anxiety are receding in her with each passing second.

“How did you find me?” she manages to ask.

“I will always find you,” he says.

“I am so sorry, Angel,” she whispers. “I missed you.”

“I know,” says her Angel. “And I forgive you, child. But let this be your last warning: Do not disobey me again, or the consequences will be much worse than a few missed lessons.”

It is impossible not to be afraid, ever so slightly afraid, there in the darkness. Christine feels immobilized.

“I am your Angel of Music,” sings the Angel, “Come to me, Angel of Music.” She finds herself rising to her feet and drifting towards the voice again. It’s so close, in the hallway just before her rather than in her mind. She reaches out a hand and lets him guide her. In the morning she wakes in dressing room thirteen. There is a note on the vanity.

_Dear Christine,_

_We shall resume our lessons as per usual, beginning tomorrow evening. You are to rest tomorrow. I shall inform the theatre._

_I remain your humble servant, and teacher,_

_The Angel of Music_

The tenor does not come back to the theatre. If the whispers of his disappearance and the Phantom are pointed at her, Christine thinks nothing of it. She does not disobey him again.

 

* * *

 

The first strange thing she witnessed at the Opera occurred not one week after she arrived, in the especially cold February of 1878. A light had crashed to the stage, very narrowly missing Carlotta, their seasoned soprano. The girls had erupted into shrieks and cries and the managers had fired a stagehand, but that night Buquet had entertained the cast and crew with stories about the Phantom and his Punjab Lasso. He had slipped it around Christine’s neck at the climax and all the girls gasp. Christine had been just fifteen, her father had just died, she was full of fear and had nearly fainted at this. Madame Giry had scolded Buquet, told Christine that she had nothing to fear from the Phantom if she listened to him.

She has heard all the stories, now, a year and a half later. Box Five is to remain empty, always, for the Opera Ghost. The Opera Ghost receives twenty-thousand francs a month. The Opera Ghost offers his input to the manager on everything from the color of the peasants’ costumes to the music for the next season. He has a head of fire. He has no head at all. He is a monster, he is a man. He is hideous, he is divine. He is masked. He can walk through walls, and swing from the flies like a monkey. He is a corpse. He can turn into a bat. He always dresses for the Opera. The only thing anyone can seem to agree on is that he is the Phantom of the Opera is very real, and he is everywhere. These are only stories.

Of everyone in the theatre, Christine feels she must be the only one to never have seen this mysterious Phantom. Things have not stopped happening since she found her teacher, but she has never been the target of such strange occurrences. Carlotta frequently can be heard screeching from her dressing room about missing jewels and too tight corsets, or else the stage hands come sputtering from the wings claiming to have seen a masked specter above the stage. Supposedly Etienne is touched by the Opera Ghost when he misplaces Christine’s prop fruit basket.

“His hands are cold as ice!” he yells, sinking into a dead faint in the middle of the stage. He does not return to work, and Monsieur Lefevre must find a new stage hand on short notice. It is the talk of the theatre for a week, and everyone from the costumers to the managers swear the Phantom had it out for that stage hand since the start. They are far past denying the Ghost, by this point. These things have been happening for five years, since long before Christine came to the Opera.

She is not privy to the interactions between the Ghost and the manager; she does not know just how real the notes are, demanding that _Don Giovanni_ be sung rather than _Tristan and Isolde,_ that the off pitch baritone be replaced, that a new violinist be hired. Monsieur Lefevre seems to become more and more sick of this by the day, though; one day he arrives with his shoes on the wrong feet and his vest buttoned lopsidedly. It seems he is nearing a break, after five years of being terrorized by this Ghost.

The only person in the whole Opera who seems unphased by the rumors of the Phantom is Madame Giry. When she catches Buquet frightening the ballerinas with stories of the magical Punjab Lasso, she calmly reminds him that speaking ill of the Ghost has never ended well for anyone before. She reminds Monsieur Lefevre that Box Five is to be kept empty, though his moments of daring are few and far between these days. Sometimes Christine catches Madame Giry looking at her strangely, with an uncomfortable mixture of fear and concern. She cannot tell whether it is fear _for_ her, or fear _of_ her. Christine suspects Madame Giry knows more than she is letting on, and so she works all the more to conceal her secret.

“Be careful, Miss Daaé,” Madame Giry says to her one day as she is warming up.

Christine looks into that aged face, tracing the wrinkles for any sign. “Be careful of what?” she asks. Her voice trembles.

“He is a powerful friend to have, but an even more powerful enemy,” is all Madame Giry says before she hurries away to rehearse her dancers.

The Ghost is a story, Christine tells herself, nothing but a story. But she is not so naïve that she does not wonder about her Angel, sometimes.

“Are you the Phantom?” she asks the darkness one night, like she had in that dream so many months ago.

“I am your Angel,” replies that voice, and it is almost enough to make Christine drop the subject all together.

“But are you also the Phantom?” she struggles through the words, it feels as if she is trying to find them from very far away.

“I go by many names,” says her Angel. It is not an answer, but the words are getting harder and harder to form.

“But–” she says, and her Angel stops her.

“No more questions, Christine,” he says. It is remarkable how quickly his voice can go from fatherly and loving to harsh and cold. Christine shivers.

“I am sorry, Angel.”

Things keep happening. Stranger things have happened, Christine always thinks, but stranger does not mean that these things aren’t strange to start with.

 

* * *

 

The second strange thing happens on her birthday. It has been a year since they’ve begun this dance, and months since Christine has gone a day without hearing her Angel. He is always there, in her mind in her heart in her soul. He knows all her secrets, she has told him everything. She has not been lonely in months, her mind has not been her own in months. She does not yearn for solitude anymore. She is oblivious to the fact that his presence in her mind in her heart in her soul has isolated her.

Madame Giry knocks upon the door to dressing room thirteen, while Christine is undressing after a performance.

“Come in,” Christine calls.

Christine has never had a mother, and when Madame Giry took her in that did not change. Madame Giry is not a very mothering figure. She is hard lines and strict rules; you do not argue with Madame Giry. Second to the Ghost, she is the greatest fear of everyone in the Opera. But in that moment she looks at Christine with such concern in her eyes that suddenly Christine is fighting the urge to fling herself in Madame Giry’s arms and sob to her. She has not missed her father so much since her Angel came to her, but she finds herself missing his loving touch more than anything.

“Happy birthday,” Madame Giry says. She stands behind Christine and begins to plait her hair for her; Christine does not argue. “You did very well tonight.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Christine says. There is much weighing on her mind, but she wants to speak to her Angel.

“How are you?” Madame Giry asks, quietly, carefully, knowingly. Christine meets her eyes in the mirror.

Christine swallows. “I am well, Madame,” she says, then looks down, at the red rose with the thorns and the black velvet bow that rests in her fingers. She has received one of these roses after every performance, and she cherishes them. “I miss my father.”

“He would be very proud of you,” Madame Giry says, “which I know is not any consolation for the ache of missinghim. But it is the truth. The Angel of Music has truly trained you well.” Christine stiffens. “Yes,” Madame Giry continues, “I know about him. Even Angels and Ghosts need help from humans now and again.”

Christine stares at her in the mirror above her vanity, eyes wide. “Is he really an Angel?” She finally whispers. She’s had her suspicions.

“I think you must ask yourself whether or not you want that answer,” Madame Giry replies, calm and mysterious and inscrutable as ever. She finishes plaiting Christine’s hair, and twirls the long braid into a bun, pins it into place with a hand that is both firm and gentle.

When she leaves, Christine swivels on the chair to look at her. “Madame Giry–” she says, but the matron raises her hand.

“He is very proud of you,” is all she says. “You must not disappoint him.” She leaves, and closes the door behind her.

Christine feels this weigh on her soul, and so she dons her dressing gown and goes to the chapel, as she has not done in her waking hours in so long. It is cold, colder than it usually is on her birthday, and Christine draws her dressing gown tighter around her body with a shiver. The chapel is deserted, as it often is, because theatres might be superstitious places but they are not for the religious. Christine feels an almighty sense of shame overcome her as she steps through the doors and into that hallowed space. She has not prayed in ages, it seems, since she started having regular interactions with an Angel it has felt entirely unnecessary. But she stands before the altar on her eighteenth birthday, that threshold between the sweetness of adolescence and the mystery of adulthood, contemplating things.

It has been three years since her father’s death today.

She finds it does not hurt so bad anymore.

She is not so lonely anymore.

“Father,” she says, and her voice cracks, and then suddenly there are tears, and the loneliness comes rushing back like it never even left. She can feel it in her soul, weight down on her shoulders, taking up the spaces between her ribs. “Father I miss you,” she gasps, sinking to her knees. The stone is cold beneath her, and she lowers her head to the stone, soaks the ground with her tears and thinks that perhaps flowers will grow, something good will come from all this sadness. Something good _has_ come from all this sadness, she reminds herself several short lifetimes later, when her tears have stopped flowing and her head is pounding with the emptiness of it all. Her Angel has come to her, in her dreams and in her waking hours, guarding her and guiding her through this earthly pain and soothing her mortal sorrows.

“Angel,” she says, and it is not a question because she knows that he is always there with her, standing behind her like a great stone protector, shielding her from harm.

_Christine…_

The voice drifts through her head, and Christine closes her eyes and lets it caress her soul. She would stay there all night, in the arms of her Angel, if he would let her. But he always flickers just out of reach, and even his soothing voice and gentle reassurances of his constant presence have started to become insufficient at quelling her persistent curiosity.

“Why do you cry, child?” he asks.

“I feel so alone,” Christine whispers to the empty room.

“You are not alone. How could you be alone, when I am here?”

“But you aren’t here!” Christine shouts, and she is shocked at the fearlessness of her anger. “You’re everywhere _but_ here! You insist that I am not alone and that you are always with me but I’ve never even _seen_ you, and yet you expect me to trust you with my life, and it—it’s not fair. All I want is to not be alone, but now I feel more alone than ever because I barely even see other people because of your rules, and for what? Where have I come in all this time?” The more she yells and vents the more she finds the fog and the haze of her Angel’s voice slipping away. It bolsters her, gives her the strength to carry on. “I’m angry,” she shouts at the altar. “Because I miss my father, and I don’t understand this game that it feels like he’s playing with me. You say you’re with me, Angel, but you’re not.”

_Enough._

The word is powerful, and sends a shock to her very core. He has never been properly angry with her in voice. He has been annoyed, and irritated, and weary, but never angry. It is overwhelmingly terrifying, but it spurs her own anger.

“I want—” she says.

“You want what?” Says her Angel, with a terrifying chill to his voice.

“I want to see you,” she says. The words pour out of her mouth in a rushed whisper, they hang in the air, suspended between her and her secret and strange Angel.  It wasn’t even what she meant to say. She meant to say _I want results,_ or _I want my friends,_ or maybe even _I want out,_ but suddenly all those options had melted away before the one thing she really _did_ want.

“Oh, Christine,” whispers the Angel. His voice has lost its anger, and she doesn’t feel so uneasy anymore. The way he says her name has always been her favorite thing, sweet like a song.

“I want to see you,” she repeats, a little firmer, but she can’t help the tears that prick at her eyes. “I’m terrified that I’ll disappoint you and my father both, Angel. That I’m not as good as you think I am and that all this work will be for nothing and I’ll never be more than a chorus girl and you will have wasted your time on me and I will have wasted the time of the Angel of Music, when there are so many other talented singers. I just think that if I _saw_ you, outside my dreams, for real, then it will all be worth something.”

“Oh, Christine,” sighs her Angel again.

“I know,” she says. “The answer is no.”

“No,” he says, not unkindly, “the answer is not yet.”

She lets this blossom like a secret and strange flower insider her chest. If this hope distracts her from the haziness as she slips back under his wing, she does not care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for vague mentions of sex with questionable consent if you really squint. Nothing graphic at all, but I figure I'll put this out there.

The strangest thing happens on a Friday. The six months since her eighteenth birthday have been long. Christine has not had a moment of clarity since her outburst in the chapel, but she doesn’t mind anymore. She has surrendered herself to her Angel completely, more completely than ever before. He occupies her body, her heart, her mind, during waking and sleeping hours, but Christine does not have it in her to fight much. Besides, he has allowed her slightly more freedom in exchange for this all-consuming devotion to him. Hazy though her mind might be, he allows her to leave the Opera once in a while with Meg, and to spend some evenings in the dormitory with the other girls. They are wary of her, it is common knowledge now that there is something off about her, but Christine will endure their nasty silences and pointed looks if it means she can sit on the end of Megs bed and listen as her friend talks about the handsome patron who has been courting her. Meg sends her funny looks too, sometimes, of care rather than disdain, though. Christine catches her staring with calculated concern one night from the wings as she sings for her Angel, and sometimes Meg suddenly asks who her teacher is, perhaps hoping to catch her off guard and receive an answer. At these, Christine always shakes her head and presses her lips together, and Meg frowns but drops the subject. These moments are often followed by days of her Angel reminding her that she must _never_ betray him, and railing against Meg, but Christine tells him in no uncertain terms that he is to leave Meg well alone. He concedes on this, and only this.

Everything else remains his decision. What she eats, what she wears, what she sings, when she sleeps. It still frightens her, this control he has over her, especially in the rare moments when he borders on threatening rather than stern, but in return for her obedience she has not felt the force of his anger again. Other people have, on her behalf, it seems—the Phantom is active once more, and with a particular vengeance towards Monsieur Lafevre, tormenting him with letters and threats that reduce him to tears—but the Angel is kind, firm, a fathering presence in Christine’s life. He feels closer than ever before. He endures her pleas to see him with a gentle patience, always saying _not yet._ His eyes follow her constantly, and Christine is completely certain her Angel walks this earth—this very Opera house!—with her, and she waits patiently for the day he reveals himself.

They are rehearsing for the new season, and Carlotta is again the lead. Carlotta has been the lead for three years now, since Christine came to the Opera, and she has yet to improve. _She_ could use lessons from the Angel. Christine, on the other hand, has come leaps and bounds in the year and a half in his tutelage. Her voice is no longer the thin, watery thing it once was, but has grown into a strong, controlled, dare she say _powerful_ soprano that earns her more than black-bowed roses with thorns on her vanity after performances, it earns her the approval of the maestro, Monsieur Reyer. And, if there is one person in the Opera whose opinion matters nearly as much as that of the Ghost, it is Monsieur Reyer. Meg and Madame Giry, who, despite her seeming dottiness and disappearances, have never left her side, have been championing her for the past weeks. Christine suspects that Meg is on the verge of starting a coup led by ballerinas, if she is not at least awarded a minor role in the upcoming production of _Hannibal._

Still, not even Meg could have foreseen this strangest thing _._

It happens in a blur. They are rehearsing, stretching as always, and Christine is telling Meg how her Angel had given her Elissa’s music to sing in their lesson this week—not in so many words, that is to say she would never betray her Angel by telling Meg who exactly her voice teacher _is,_ but Meg understands this best kept secret, even if she pries now and then. Carlotta is missing notes, Piangi is stuck on the elephant. Monsieur Reyer is angry with the mezzo-sopranos and Madame Giry is angry with the ballerinas. Business as usual at the Opera. 

Until Monsieur Lefevre enters, followed by a pair of men who look so odd next to one another they might have stepped out of a an _opera buffa_ themselves. One is tall and thin with a mustache that extends past his face, and he is a wearing a ridiculous coat lined in the fur of an animal Christine can’t identify. The other is short and fat and his waistcoat is strained at the buttons, and he runs a handkerchief over his sweating, bald, head before replacing his tophat. Both men are wearing shoes so shiny the stage lights are reflected in the leather, and looking about the set and the activity with an air of excitement. From their spot on the floor near the wings, Christine and Meg share a quizzical look that quickly turns to one of surprise as Madame Giry strikes the stage with her cane, and everybody snaps to attention. 

“Thank you, Madame Giry,” says the flustered Monsieur Lefevre. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention _please._ As you know, there have been some rumors floating around of my imminent retirement—” the gathering of people on the stage breaks into a flurry of whispers, and Christine clutches at Megs arm. _Has her Angel done something?_ Monsieur Lefevre is trying desperately to regain the attention of the assembled cast and crew, but to no avail. It is only when Madame Giry strikes the ground again with her cane that people reluctantly turn their heads back to him. “Thank you, Madame,” he mumbles again, “now where was I? Ah, yes, my retirement. Well, I am here to inform you all today that these rumors are _true,_ and I have with me the new owners of the Opera Populaire. Monsieur André,” he gestures to the tall man, whose mustache quivers as he gazes around at everyone, “and Monsieur Firmin.” The short man gives a polite nod, and his top hat tumbles off his head. 

Monsieur Lefevre continues talking, blustering on about their _seasoned soprano_ Carlotta, and how thrilled they are to be preparing for _Hannibal,_ but Christine has stopped listening. She turns to Meg and sees her own wide-eyed, confused expression echoed in her friend’s face. 

“You don’t think—” she whispers. 

“—the Ghost?” Meg finishes her thought. “What else could it be? I heard _Maman_ last night telling Monsieur Reyer that Monsieur Lefevre has not paid his salary yet this month, and that the Ghost sent a nasty letter in retaliation.”

“Why wouldn’t he pay?” Christine says. 

Meg shrugs. “You know how Monsieur Lefevre is, some days he’s terrified of the Ghost and others he’s ready to go to war. I suspect Carlotta demanded another pay raise and Monsieur Lefevre doesn’t have the money to pay both a diva and the Phantom. Between you and me, I think the Ghost is more likely to win this battle than Carlotta.” She snickers, but Christine shakes her head, watching Carlotta simper as Monsieur André practically falls at her feet in worship. 

“I don’t think so,” she says. “It looks as though he’s just as in love with her as Monsieur Lefevre.” 

As they watch, Monsieur André begs Carlotta to sing Elissa’s aria from Act III, and Christine and Meg sigh in unison, taking up their positions as the diva dons her scarf. They get not sixteen bars into the music before something strange happens, though, as it always does at the Opera. This time, a backdrop falls to the stage with an almighty crash, causing Carlotta to break off her aria into a bloodcurdling scream and the stage to echo with shrieks and shouting. Christine herself feels a jolt of fear at the sound, and looks to the flies, where she swears she sees a shape standing above her in the darkness. Before she can look closer, though, it is gone. A wave of nausea crashes over her, and the edges of her vision darken. 

“He’s here!” Meg cries, running center stage to her mother. “ _The Phantom of the Opera!”_  

“Now really!” Monsieur André says, in utter shock. “Good heavens, girl, show a little courtesy!” 

“Mademoiselle, please!” Monsieur Firmin shouts at Meg. “What _ever_ is going on?” demands Monsieur Firmin, looking to Monsieur Lefevre for an answer. 

“I– It– He– Buquet!” screams Monsieur Lefevre, so red in the face he is bordering on purple, and Christine fears for his heart. “Buquet,” he says again, much calmer as the man lumbers onto the stage. “Master of the flies. He’ll tell us what this is all about.” Monsieur Lefevre turns to Buquet with a bizarre expression on his face, some strange combination of fear, mortification, and rage that Christine does not think is very flattering. 

“By God I swear,” rasps Buquet, “I wasn’t at my post.” The ballerinas break into a bout of renewed whispering. “There’s no one there _,”_ Buquet says, and the stage goes silent. “and if there is, it must be a ghost!” 

“ _The Phantom of the Opera!_ ” Meg cries again, to the increasing displeasure of Monsieur Firmin, and runs to Christine’s side, taking her hands. Christine didn’t even realize she had sunk to the ground, but she feels her hands shaking in Megs grasp and leans into her friend’s embrace.

“Now _really!”_ Monsieur Firmin says again. “What is all this about a Ghost?”

“Signora, _please!_ ” cries Monsieur Firmin. “These things do happen.” 

Carlotta glares at him with such malice it makes Christine lean back. “These things do happen,” she whispers. “These things do happen! What do you know, you have been here five minutes! Yes, these things do _happen_ all the time! They have been happening for _three years!_ And _he_ —” she points at Monsieur Lefevre, who pales, “—did _nothing_ to stop them!” She’s on her feet now, blustering and spitting and frankly, Christine thinks, looking quite unhinged. “These things do happen! Well, until you stop _these things_ happening _, this thing_ does _not happen!_ ” She storms off the stage, pushing Christine, who has just regained her feet, out of the way.

Piangi only takes the time to spit a derisive “amateurs” in the face of the Messieurs before he follows her, and the stage is left in silence. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” says Monsieur Lefevre, weakly. He has now gone so white he looks himself like a ghost. “If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt.” And with that, he stumbles off the stage, leaving the assembled people in utter disbelief.

The silence hangs only a moment before Madame Giry steps in, with a note. Christine wonders, faintly, how she got it so soon. 

“I have a message,” she says, and Christine feels the world shrink again, “from the Opera Ghost.”

Another bout of muttering, which only serves to anger Monsieur Firmin even more. 

“You’re all obsessed!” he declares. “Really, an _Opera Ghost,_ what utter nonsense.” 

“He only wishes to welcome you to _his_ Opera house,” says Madame Giry, continuing as if without interruption at all, “and requests that Box Five continues to remain empty for his use, and warns you that his salary is overdue.”

“His _salary?_ ” snorts Monsieur Firmin. 

“Monsieur Lefevre paid him twenty-thousand francs a month.” 

“ _Twenty-thousand?_ ” yelps Monsieur André. 

“Perhaps you are able to afford more?” Madame Giry arches an eyebrow, cool and inscrutable as ever. “With the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron?” 

“Well I had _hoped_ to make that announcement myself,” snarls Monsieur Firmin, “at the show tonight. Though, good heavens, without a lead…” 

“The understudy!” cries Monsieur André.

“There is no understudy,” says Monsieur Reyer, in absolute anguish. “The production was new!”

“Good heavens,” Monsieur André sinks into Carlotta’s abandoned chair. “This is a disaster! A sold-out show, and we’ll have to cancel!” 

Meg gives Christine absolutely no warning before she shoves her forward. “Christine Daaé could sing it!” she says. “She knows the part!” 

Christine yelps. “No– _Meg!_ ” but it’s too late. She is center stage, before Messieurs André, Firmin, and Reyer, and Madame Giry. 

“The chorus girl?” Monsieur Firmin sneers. 

“Let her sing for you,” Madame Giry says to him, though she does not take her eyes from Christine’s. “She has been well taught.” 

“By whom?” demands Monsieur Firmin. 

“I– I don’t know, sir,” Christine stammers. 

“Oh good heavens!” he cries, but Monsieur André is looking at her with polite interest. 

“Daaé?” he asks. “A curious last name.” 

“Swedish, sir,” Christine says. 

“Any relation to the violinist, Gustave Daaé?” he asks, not unkindly. 

“My late father, sir,” says Christine. 

“Very well,” says Monsieur André. “If you wouldn’t mind, then, Monsieur Reyer. From the beginning of Elissa’s aria in Act III?” 

“I– of course,” Monsieur Reyer says, and jumps into action. 

The music begins, and Christine thinks she might faint. Everybody is staring at her, and the first few notes are barely a whisper. “I—” she says, making to run off stage, but Madame Giry strikes the ground with her cane and casts a significant glance towards Box Five. Christine is reminded just who exactly is watching, and so she swallows her nerves and faces forward again. 

All it takes is the thought of her Angel to dispel her fear. He’s with her, like he always is, and she hears him remind her to straighten her spine and breathe from her diaphragm. Her voice steadies, strengthens into the soaring soprano it has become in the past year and a half, climbs higher and higher easily on Elissa’s aria, and Christine hates to be arrogant but she knows that she is better by far than Carlotta, in this moment. Her Angel was right, all those months ago, about not singing to the mirror, because now she is singing to the audience, the stunned faces of Messieurs André and Firmin, and to Meg and Madame Giry, beaming proudly at her, and mostly to her Angel, whose eyes she can feel upon her. 

She only sings sixteen bars before Monsieur André holds up a hand and Monsieur Reyer quiets the orchestra. Christine stands before them, trying to steady her heart, chin up and shoulders back while everyone gazes at her with a moment of stunned silence. 

“I think we have solved the problem of our leading lady, Monsieur Firmin,” says Monsieur André with a bright smile. 

“Yes, I believe so,” says Monsieur Firmin, faintly. 

“Miss Daaé will sing the part of Elissa then this evening, and until further notice. If you’ll excuse us, then, we must be going.” Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin depart, each with a little bow in her direction, seemingly completely unaware what they’ve done. 

What she’s done. 

What _he’s_ done. 

The second they leave Christine is bombarded with shouting and applause, chiefly from Meg, who hugs her and jumps up and down and kisses her cheeks. The rest of the chorus is triumphant at Carlotta dethroned by one of their own, and shower her with praise and pats on the back, and even Madame Giry’s mouth seems less stern than usual, but Christine has only a moment to absorb this before she is being whisked away by Monsieur Reyer, who is thrusting a libretto into her hands and asking whether she knows the whole score. He pushes her before the orchestra and they begin from the top as he directs her voice and her movements. Any time she is standing still Madame Claude is taking her measurements with a tape, around her waist and around her bust and up the side of her leg. Christine would be embarrassed if she weren’t so overwhelmed. There is hardly a moment to breathe let alone be nervous in the next seven hours, she is being told so many things and crowded by so many people in the final preparations for the opening night.

It is not until she is back in dressing room thirteen, alone, half an hour before curtain, that a sense of dread settles in the pit of her stomach. Christine stares at herself in the mirror, nearly unrecognizable. She always feels that way before a performance, with her makeup caked upon her face and her chorus dress upon her body, but this, _Elissa’s costume,_ is so much more. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are lined dramatically, and the crown that sits atop her perfectly curled hair is magnificent. The bodice is encrusted with jewels, and behind her hangs a skirt that Madame Claude will help her to don in just a few moments. She looks like a queen—No, she looks like a _diva._ Like a leading lady. But she feels like a chorus girl, and try as she might, Christine can’t ignore the feeling that this is more than she deserves. It is all so frighteningly real, and Christine finds herself reaching for the photo of her father she keeps on her desk. 

“You knew this day would come, didn’t you?” she asks, quietly, touching the glass. “That’s why you sent me the Angel of Music. You knew all along.” She bites her lip, closes her eyes for a moment. “What if I’m not ready?” 

“Of course you are ready, child,” says her Angel, as she knew he would when she asked the question. “Do you think I would let this happen if you were not ready? You were meant for this.” 

Christine lets his voice calm her in these final moments before Madame Claude is there for any final touches, and she tries not to think about how she’s angry and frightened at how quickly this all happened, before she even feels like she’s ready. Shouldn’t she be happy? She should, she knows this, but she can’t help but feel betrayed. Yet, as she stands on the stage in the breath before the curtain rises and she will make her _debut_ on the stage of the _Opera Populaire_ as the _leading soprano,_ she looks to where she knows Box Five sits, empty, beyond the velvet of the curtain, and feels the butterflies melt away. _You were meant for this,_ he had said. _You were meant for me,_ is what she had heard. The music begins, the curtain rises, and the house is full of faces but she sees not one. 

 _Sing for me,_ sings her Angel, ever so softly, and she does. 

Christine does not remember most of the performance, which is a pity because she had always thought that if she ever had the chance to sing the lead on the stage of the Paris Opera, she would never forget it. But in the flurry of nerves and excitement, the rush of adrenaline and the heat of the stage lights, Christine’s mind goes curiously blank. It is not unlike the way she feels during her voice lessons with her Angel, when she completely surrenders herself to the music—to him—and lets the notes guide her body and soul. Singing on the stage is just like that, only _more._ Her heart soars alongside her voice, climbing ever higher and falling in dramatic spirals. The notes arc through the air like birds and hum like the feeling before the storm. Christine barely even notices the audience, the wondrous faces staring up at her like she is a goddess, the beaming Messieurs André and Firmin in their box, alongside their hoity-toity patron. Nothing matters other than that she’s _here,_ she’s done it, she’s really and truly turned this stage into her altar, and her Angel is to thank for it all. All her fear and anger at him is gone when she sings, and she thinks she could forgive him any trespasses if only this feeling would never leave her. This—this sharing the music with all these people before her, this transforming into another person, leaving behind her own life for the fantastic, this performing—this is magic. 

 

* * *

  

It is not until the curtain falls and she is rushed once again by the corps de ballet and the chorus, Meg in the lead, that Christine comes back to herself in a whirl of emotion. She has barely a moment before the curtains open and she walks forward to take her bow— _her bow—_ before an audience that is on their feet, clapping and shouting with their faces glistening in tears. _They’re clapping for me,_ is all Christine can think, numbly, as she takes bow after bow. The lights are bright and sound is harsh and somewhere—she knows exactly where, Box Five—her angel is clapping for her too. She takes a final bow before the curtain closes, and everything becomes dim. Her head is spinning and her knees are growing weak and Christine honestly doesn’t know whether she wants to see her Angel or not right now, after all this, so she runs. She brushes off the other members of the cast and crew and runs, dress and all, until she finds a quiet corner far away from the chaos. There, she leans her head against the wall until the room stops spinning and she no longer feels like she’s going to throw up. 

This is all too much. It had been brilliant, phenomenal, unbelievable in the moment, on the stage, she had never been happier, but now she’s here in the dark of this corner of the Opera house and it’s all too much. She hadn’t even had the time to properly savor it. She had been thrust into the spotlight, to resounding applause, and there is a bitter taste in her mouth at being angry because she knows she is being foolish, but she can’t help it. Her Angel hadn’t asked. He never asks, he just _does,_ and Christine is always left feeling like the floor has been yanked out from under her. She is resolved to demand that he stop this. 

Meg is waiting outside her dressing room, and looks overcome with relief when she sees Christine coming down the hall, deep in thought.

“ _Christine!”_ she cries. “Christine!”

_Christine…_

Christine feels a chill at the voice. It is always more unsettling when it comes from within her, and she casts a fearful glance around her. Does he know? That these terrible horrible thoughts are raging in her heart like a winter storm, and that her adoration of him is tinged with bitterness? 

“Where in the world have you been hiding?” Meg demands, jerking Christine from her reverie. Meg grabs her by the hands and pulls her into dressing room thirteen, where Madame Claude is sitting on the chaise, looking anxious. She jumps to work the second she sees Christine, tutting at her tardiness. “You were perfect,” Meg breathes, helping Madame Claude with the laces on Christine’s corset. Together, they transform her from Queen Elissa back into Christine Daaé, and help her shrug into her soft, white dressing gown. As Madame Claude disappears out the door under the piles of fabric, Meg turns Christine to face her. She touches her cheek, frowning, and Christine realizes she must have been crying and run tracks through her makeup. “What is your secret, Christine?” Meg asks. “You must tell me who this new teacher is.”

Staring into Meg’s earnest eyes, Christine feels her resolve wear away. She has been so lonely, even with her Angel, and she finds she _wants_ to tell Meg everything. She wants to tell her about the dreams, the fantasies, the chapel, the voice, her suspicions about her angel and the overwhelming fear she feels at her anger towards him right now.

“When I was little,” she says, slowly, “my father used to speak of an Angel. I used to have dreams about him, he’d come to me, this Angel of Music. And now… When I sing, I can feel him, Meg.” Her heart is going faster, and now she’s started she can’t stop, all these things are bubbling over and Meg is holding Christine’s arms to keep her from falling. “He calls me here, in this room, somewhere inside it he’s hiding.” She knows she sounds hysterical, and Meg is looking at her with abject horror, but Christine can’t stop. “He’s always with me,” she whispers. 

“Christine,” Meg says, seriously. “Christine, you’re exhausted, you must have dreamt this. I mean—angels and voices, these are stories, Christine! They aren’t true! They _can’t_ be. You’re speaking nonsense, Christine, it isn’t like you,” she whispers. 

“Angel,” Christine says, and Meg looks more terrified than ever. “Angel, I want to see you,” she says. 

“You’ve never _seen_ him? He hides from you? Christine, why?” 

“Please, Angel,” Christine says, ignoring Meg entirely, “hide no longer. Please, let me see you.” 

“But _who_ is this Angel, Christine?” Meg asks, calling her attention once more. 

“Someone secret,” Christine murmurs, “secret and strange.” She turns her face back to Meg. “He’s with me, even now,” she whispers. “All around me.” 

“Christine,” Meg says again, and when they meet eyes Christine can see her own pale, terrified face reflected in her friend. “Your face is white, your hands are cold.” 

“It frightens me,” she confesses aloud for the first time. 

“Don’t be frightened,” Meg whispers back, though it is entirely unconvincing. 

It is at this moment that Madame Giry throws open the door, and Christine and Meg both leap in terror. 

“Meg,” Madame Giry says, and Meg seems to shrink under her mother’s glare. “Should you not be practicing with the rest of the dancers?” 

“Yes, _maman,_ ” Meg says, throwing Christine one last troubled look over her shoulder as she hurries out the door. 

Madame Giry turns to Christine, and gazes at her with those searching eyes for a long moment. “You were excellent,” is all she says, at long last. “ _He_ will be pleased.” 

Christine swallows, and looks at the ground. 

“I was asked to give you this,” Madame Giry says, offering her a rose and a note, and Christine feels her heart leap into her throat, hammering so hard she can’t breathe. She takes them with trembling hands and Madame Giry leaves, closing the door and leaving Christine alone with her thoughts, to await her Angel. 

Christine waits a whole minute before daring to look at the flower and the note in her hand, and when she does she is confused and surprised to see that the rose has neither its customary thorns nor its black bow. Even more shocking, though, is that the note is not addressed to her in the imperious red cursive she has grown so used to, but rather in hastily scrawled letters written in black ink. This has not come from her Angel. _Has he forgotten?_ Angry though she might be, the thought of him not congratulating her on this night, the culmination of everything they have been working towards, makes her feel sick. _Had she not been good enough?_ Christine shakes the thoughts from her head, and unfolds the note, which, she now sees, had indeed been hastily written on a sheet torn from the programme. She frowns, sinks to her vanity chair and contemplates the writing before her. The message is short and enigmatic. 

 _Did you leave your red scarf in the attic again, Little Lotte?_

These words stir something in Christine, a memory of the windswept coast of Brittany, in the north of France. The little town of Perros-Guirec, where she and her father had rented rooms for a number of months. There’d been a boy, named Raoul, fourteen or so the last time she saw him, when she herself had been twelve. Not so long ago, then, but at the same time several lifetimes away from dressing room thirteen. Her father had whiled away the hours on his violin before the fireplace, while she and Raoul had hidden under blankets they’d thrown over chairs and whispered scary stories of gods and fearsome beasts. And she’d had a red scarf that she was always losing, which, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen in years. 

A bout of laughter brings Christine sharply back to the present. It sounds like a group of men, but groups of men hardly wander so far from the lounge. Christine herself ought to be getting ready for the reception, where she is sure there will be admirers looking to congratulate her, but she barely even picks up her comb before there is a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” She calls, thinking it is Meg, returned from rehearsing and come to help her again, but it is a distinctly male voice that greets her from doorway.

“Christine Daaé,” the voice says, “where is your red scarf?”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur?” Christine says. She turns, quizzical, to face the stranger standing in the doorway, only to be greeted by not a stranger at all but the very boy she had been reminiscing about. 

Raoul has grown a lot in the past six years. He had been lanky and awkward the last time she’d seen him, all limbs and no control of them, but now he has come into himself quite nicely. Broad shoulders fill his pristine jacket, and he is tall, much taller than she remembers, standing a good head above her. He cuts an impressive figure, standing there in the open door, his hands behind his back as he looks at her expectantly. His hair has grown to a lighter brown over the years, and is combed neatly in the fashion of rich men, but the same insistent little curl he’d had as a boy swoops across his forehead, and his eyes are the same kind, blue eyes that used to watch her with such tenderness while she sang to her father’s violin, that used to follow her eagerly while she spun tales of goblins and ghouls and Little Lotte, the heroine with dark brown hair that had befriended them all. The boy— _man,_ Christine corrects herself—standing before her is stunningly handsome, down to the joyful smile that lights up his face and, she swears, the entire room. 

“All the trouble I went through,” he says, shaking his head, and Christine can hear it in his voice, too. It’s deeper than before, but it has the same gentle rise and fall to it that had comforted her during raging summer storms and pointed out the constellations to her on the nights they’d snuck out of his house and down to the beach to lie on blankets and look at the stars. “Just fourteen and soaked to the bone!” 

“Because you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf!” Christine cries, leaping from her chair. “Raoul, it really _is_ you!” 

“Christine!” 

His smile grows, if anything, wider with the joy of recognition and he steps into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. All sense of propriety is forgotten as she flings herself into his arms, unconscious and uncaring of the fact that they are alone in her dressing room and the door is closed, the leading lady and a guest, and she is wearing only her dressing gown. He swings her in a circle like he used to do when they were small, throwing his head back in raucous laughter that is more beautiful than any song she’s ever heard. He brings summertime into the room with him, and all of a sudden the lamps seem brighter and all thoughts of her Angel and any fear or anger she might be harboring are driven from Christine’s mind because _Raoul is here, Raoul is standing before her, Raoul is holding her in his arms and she has found him again and nothing could ever ruin this moment, nothing in the whole world will ever compare to this happiness._  

“Little Lotte,” he sighs into her hair, holding her tightly. 

“I can’t believe you remember that, too,” Christine says, pulling away just slightly to tilt her head back and look at him. 

“How could I forget?” he murmurs. “How you used to let your mind wander…”  He sighs, looking at her with a fondness she recognizes from all those years ago. “All those stories of goblins and ghosts, those riddles you used to ask me at breakfast—” 

“—that you could never answer,” Christine teases.

“And how you used to make me play dress up!” He cries. “My father was never so angry as when he found me in one of your frocks, and you wearing my shoes!” 

“I remember,” Christine laughs. “They were so big, I fell in the garden and Madame Bautiste had to patch up my knee.” 

“And the picnics in the attic?” Raoul says, gazing at her with such wonder and such tenderness it hardly seems real. He is so warm. “How I used to steal chocolates from Cook and sneak them in my pockets for you?” 

“You got in such trouble for that, too,” Christine says, tweaking his nose with her fingers like she used to do when they were children.

“And your father used to play the violin, while we told ghost stories to one another!” 

“You used to frighten me so!” Christine laughs, “You would tell terrible stories of banshees and Vikings, and I would be so scared!”

“But by _far_ your favorite,” Raoul says, laughing as he recalls, “was the Angel of Music! Remember that one, Christine? You used to tell me about your dreams, how the Angel sang to you at night. You’d sing the most beautiful melodies… and look at you now, Christine. An opera star!” 

“Yes,” Christine murmurs. The mention of the Angel of Music has stolen some of the light from the room, and the chill is seeping under the walls again. “Father always said, ‘When I’m in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you…’” she trails off, gazing at herself in the mirror. The only warmth left in the room is that of Raoul’s arms, and she looks back at his face. He is still staring at her with open wonderment, drinking in her features the way she had him as he stood in her doorway. His eyes trace her cheekbone, her eyes, her nose, her lips, and his arms tighten again as he seems to remember that it’s really her, standing before him.

“Where is your father, Christine?” Raoul asks. “Surely he’s here, tonight. He must be so excited to see you perform, I must say hello to him.” 

 _Ah,_ she thinks, _yes._ The last time she had seen Raoul, she had been twelve and it had been a heartbreaking goodbye as her father had packed their belongings in a carriage bound for Paris. She had flung her arms around Raoul, terrified that she would never see her friend again. Of course he would not know that Gustave Daaé had passed in the intervening years. 

“Well,” she sighs, “Father _is_ dead, Raoul.” 

His face falls and he shakes his head slightly, mouth open. “No– I– Christine,” he whispers. “I am so sorry. When? How?” 

“More than three years ago, now,” she says, looking away. “Consumption.” 

“I am so sorry,” he says again, drawing her, if possible, closer to his chest. “I wish there was something more I could say,” he whispers, his hand caressing her hair. 

“It’s alright, Raoul,” Christine says, and though her voice is muffled by his chest and she feels a little bit like crying, she means it. “He’s still with me.” 

“Of course he is,” Raoul says, drawing away and holding her face between his hands. “It’s clear, Christine, he’s passed his gift to music on to you. He would be so proud.” 

“Raoul,” she whispers, and he leans closer. 

“Christine,” he whispers back, so close their foreheads are almost touching.

“I have a secret,” she says, “something secret and strange.” 

“What is it?” Raoul asks, tucking a stray curl back behind her ear. For a moment, they are children again. 

She hesitates, but his eyes are earnest, like Meg’s, and though they’ve only just been reunited, Christine already knows she would trust him with her life. _And I might be doing so,_ she thinks, privately.

“I _have_ been visited by the Angel of Music,” she whispers into the stillness.

Raoul smiles, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Clearly,” he says, “who could deny it? You yourself were an angel on that stage tonight.” 

“No, Raoul,” Christine protests, “I mean my teacher _is_ the Angel of Music.”

“Of course he is,” he says. He must think she’s spinning stories again, that they’re playing in the attic and Little Lotte is telling tall tales before dinner. “And now, we go to supper.” 

Christine jumps like she’s been burned, and outside of the warmth of Raoul’s embrace her dressing room is cold, far too cold. 

“No!” she cries, “Raoul, the Angel of Music is very strict!” 

“Well, I won’t keep you out late,” he says, joking. 

“No—” 

“Come, you must change, and _I_ must get my hat.” 

“Raoul—” 

“Two minutes!” he says, opening the door and turning to look at her one more time before he leaves. “Little Lotte,” he murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief as he heads back towards the stage. 

Christine is left with cold, paralyzing dread in her bones. Now that Raoul is gone, she wonders how she ever ignored the presence of her Angel. She can feel him everywhere in the room, and she hurriedly shuts Raoul’s note and his flower in her vanity, as if that will make a difference. 

 _Insolent boy!_ booms the voice, so loud it makes Christine jump, _this slave of fashion! Basking in your glory!_ There is so much anger Christine is shaking, terrified, because the last time he had been this angry terrible things had happened, and she shudders to think of that anger directed at Raoul, sweet, kind, gentle Raoul, who has been missing for her life for so many years and has finally, at long last, found her again. _Ignorant fool!_ the voice rages, _Brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!_

“Angel,” Christine gasps, coming to her senses, pleading, “speak, Angel,” she begs, “I listen. Stay, please don’t go, Angel, I need you, I need you to guide me. I was weak, Angel, forgive me, _please._ ” She says the words mostly out of a desperation to placate him before his anger grows vengeful, but once they’re out of her mouth the fog comes rushing back, and she realizes how true they are. She does need him. Who will she have, if not him? 

“Flattering child,” the Angel says, and Christine is relieved to hear it outside her head. “You shall know me.” 

“Angel?” Christine asks, quietly, hardly daring to speak at all. 

“Look at your face in the mirror,” he says, and Christine does. “I am there, inside.” For a moment Christine has no idea what he is saying. All she sees is her own face reflected back at her, pale and tearstained and exhausted, and then—and she almost faints at this—suddenly she is not alone in the mirror. Christine whirls around the room but no, she is alone, there is no one else there, except there _is_ because there is someone _in the mirror, looking back at her._ He is fuzzy, but Christine can see only half a handsome face and—is that a mask? Her mind feels so foggy, so dizzy that she hardly stops to question it, just reaches a hand out to touch the face in the mirror. 

“Angel,” she says, “oh _Angel._ Grant me your glory, come to me, Angel.”

She should be more surprised when she blinks and her hand passes through the glass. She should be more surprised, but stranger things have happened, and she is so distant that she can’t even remember that mirrors are supposed to have glass. Still, the outstretched hand shocks her dimly. Her Angel is wearing black gloves, but a sliver of pale skin peeks from between the edge of his glove and the cuff of his jacket. His hand is there, extended between them, an invitation, but Christine can’t seem to make herself take it. Even through her clouded mind she knows that something about this feels not right. She hesitates, drawing her hand back to her chest, staring up at that face in the mirror that’s not in the mirror but is before her. Taking his hand will mean something—something secret and strange and concrete, it will mean that this Angel is real. Her heart stutters at the concept, and her Angel tilts his head in the mirror. He flexes his fingers, drawing her attention back to that hand, that invitation. 

“I am your Angel of Music,” he sings. It’s terrifying, mesmerizing, enchanting. His lips are moving in time with the words so she knows it must be him singing, but the thought does nothing to soothe her nerves, for the first time ever. “Come to me, Angel of Music.” Just because it does not calm her does not mean it does not entice her, though. He keeps singing that haunting melody, secret and strange, and the world closes around her in a familiar way. It is just her and him, as it has always been, and that hand stretched between them. Her resolve is wearing thin, she still fears the fear and hesitation but it is overpowered by curiosity, desire, a hundred other far more wicked emotions that she doesn’t have names for but that have been plaguing her since this began.

She takes his hand. 

She takes his hand, and steps over the threshold and into that darkness, darkness, darkness. 

If she feels a flicker of fear as his cloak whirls around her and blocks out the remaining light from her dressing room, it is but a drop in an ocean of other emotions. She looks up into that face— _his_ face—as he leads her downward, downward, downward.

 

* * *

  

The strangest thing can become even stranger, it seems. The moment the mirror closes—closes?—behind them, they are plunged into an even darker darkness that eats at Christine’s skin. Her Angel’s fingers slip from her grasp and he stops singing and suddenly there is only fear, and she turns around, looking for her dressing room and the light and Meg and Raoul and anything that can put a stop to this terrible, all-consuming fear. She finds nothing but walls that are cold to the touch and damp, and Christine searches wildly for anything in the darkness that says she is not alone. Christine has never been afraid of the dark, but she thinks now that that is because she has never known _real_ darkness, not like this, not the kind of darkness that makes her doubt whether or not she is even there. In front of her, she thinks there is a spot of even darker darkness, and she stumbles away from it, back towards the direction from which she thinks she came, but suddenly a hand closes over her wrist and a lantern sputters to light, illuminating the corridor. 

The lantern is attached to a gloved hand, that is attached to the body of a man, that has a head that wears a mask and a wide-brimmed hat. He looks like a ghost, with the white of the mask and the white of his skin and the whirling black of his coat, all his shadows and lines thrown into sharp relief in the sudden light of the lantern. She doesn’t get a good look at him before he turns, pulling Christine behind him, and she stumbles forward, plunging into the unknown.

The journey is long. Christine tries to keep count of her steps and remember which way they turn but it’s useless, her head is growing cloudy again and the hand on her wrist is tight and insistent that they walk quickly. She turns back several times, fighting against him and reaching for anything to lead her back to the light, but behind her there is only darkness and before her there is only him, guide and guardian. Her feet begin to ache, she has been walking and standing and dancing all day with barely a moment to sit down, and she is exhausted from the performance, from seeing Raoul again, and now from this. They make a strange pair, Christine notes dimly, his dark cloak and hat like some sort of vengeful angel, leading them forward with the lantern, her trailing behind in her white robe. Like a twisted spin on Orpheus and Eurydice. 

What is most terrible of all though is that try as she might to turn, some part of her _wants_ to go with him. She has to know who this Angel is, where he is taking her, who the man behind the mask is. She wants to surrender to him. 

He had come to her in her dreams, he’d sung to her, soothed her mind and soul. He’d learned her name,  her secrets, and slowly he’d gained her friendship, her love, gained power over her. Here, in the darkness, his hand on her wrist as he pulls her ever deeper into this winding labyrinth, she is completely at his mercy. It is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. 

Christine stops, and he jerks to a halt in front of her. He turns, holds the lantern between them. She is struck again by his odd appearance, and by a kind of morbid curiosity about source of the stories. She suddenly becomes all too aware of the fact that the hand holding hers is real, corporeal, solid against her skin. Her Angel, the Ghost, is a man. This dream is too much to comprehend.

“Phantom,” she whispers. “You are inside my mind.” 

“Yes,” he replies. 

“But you are also here.” 

“Yes.” 

“How?” She’s breathless. The corridor feels as if it’s tilting out from under her, and she stumbles towards the wall. 

In response, he offers her his hand. Ever her guide and her guardian, despite everything. She does not hesitate before she places her fingers in his, and follows him willingly.

“Did you dream of this?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Christine whispers.

“And in all your fantasies,” he says, “you must have always known. Man and mystery—” 

“You are made of these things,” she finishes. 

Just when Christine thinks she cannot possible walk another step, her feet hurt so much, they reach the edge of a vast lake. She stops and stares at the water, terrified that they will have to swim. _I don’t know how to swim,_ she thinks, stupidly. The water looks dark and cold, and Christine is terrified of what might be lurking in its depth. She wonders, vaguely, if she is a fool to be more afraid of nebulous unknown things than she is the very real man standing next to her. Which is to say, absolutely petrified. Before she can spend too long worrying, though, her Angel is pulling her by the hand again, leading her along the water’s edge until they reach a little boat, cushioned with ornate pillows. He helps her into it and settles her among the cushions before shoving off from the shore and pushing them out, once more into the unknown.

“Your face– your mask– it’s me,” Christine says, mumbling. 

“It’s me,” he echoes. “They hear me, my spirit, in your voice.” 

“I hear you,” she whispers, “inside my mind. But you’re also here… How can that be?” 

His eyes search hers for several long moments. She is shocked to see they are not brown or green, but a jarring amber that seems to scorch her skin as he gazes at her. She breaks first, turning to watch the glassy water sliding below her. She can’t see the bottom of the lake—whether because it is dark in this underground world or because the lake itself is deep, she does not know—but she is tempted to reach out her hand and run it along the surface. As she watches, lights begin to appear, shimmering and mesmerizing in the surface of the water, and it is several moments of watching the light play on the ripples around the boat before she realizes it is a reflection and she lifts her head. The sight astounds her; hundreds of candles, flickering in the distance, rising out of the water like ghosts. Wildly, Christine thinks they are floating in the air until the boat comes to a stop with a gentle lurch, and its driver disembarks. He offers his hand and once more Christine takes it without a moment’s thought, stepping onto solid ground.

It is another strange thing in the night of strangest things. They must be miles beneath the Opera House, standing on a small island in the middle of an underground lake. The candles almost look like stars. 

Everything is a blur, by now. She’s let him in—really and truly—into her mind in a way that she never has before. She’s _followed_ him, _willingly,_ down into this underground world, some terrible horrible reflection of the Garden of Eden with twisted metal that resembles trees, and no color to speak of. She stands alone in this landscape of darkness, a pinprick of light, a candle among candles in stark contrast to the rocks, the water, to _him._ In the candlelight she can finally get a good look at him. He is tall, and thin, and impeccably dressed. His cloak is well made, the fabric shines and the back is peppered with stones that catch the light so that he himself looks as though he is made of stars. As she watches, though, he whirls this off his shoulders, draping it across one of the metal trees, and removes his hat. He is wearing a suit beneath this cloak, well-fitted and made of fine fabric, Christine can tell, his black pants and white shirt neatly pressed. His hair matches the rest of him, dark brown—almost black—and neatly combed to his head. _He is dressed for an Opera,_ Christine thinks, though the thoughts she is afforded now are few and far between. Up close, his mask is somehow both more and less terrifying. It is not so stark white, she can see that it is contoured like his real face, which is actually quite handsome. Sculpted cheekbones, dark eyebrows, full lips give the impression that she is looking at someone who is not quite real. He is like a work of art come to life, so strange he’s beautiful, so brilliant it’s like staring at the sun.    

Music echoes around them. She does not remember seeing an organ when they arrived, but now he is seated at one, playing loudly. Suddenly the underground chamber is filled with music, nothing but music, it takes the place of the air and steals the breath from her lungs, fills her body and soul. There is no feeling like this feeling. There is _nothing_ that compares to hearing her Angel’s music here, before her, and seeing him play. 

“Sing,” he commands, and she does. 

Her voice bursts forth in a way it has never done before. Clear and bright and climbing higher and higher, higher than she had on stage, higher than she ever has before. Christine is dimly aware of her own amazement at this; it’s like she can almost see her voice coming from her body, feel it in the air all around her. It is beautiful and it is powerful and it is the kind of voice that moves people. And then _his_ voice joins in, an equally beautiful and powerful tenor that blends smoothly with her own, chasing the notes out of her chest. She thinks she must be going mad because the music is still playing but he is in front of her, drawing her voice from her more and more, pulling her ever closer to him, body and soul. Perhaps it is that the music is in her mind, perhaps it is in her heart, but nothing makes sense anymore. She is in a world where the stars are closer to earth than they are to heaven and angels walk the ground like men and music can make ones soul take flight and she is worried that thinking about it at all will take away, so she doesn’t. She doesn’t think about it when his arms wrap around her, his voice wraps around her, doesn’t think about the way his hands feel against her skin or the way his gaze sets her on fire, despite how cold it is down in this lair, doesn’t think about how she shouldn’t even be able to feel any of these things at all, because Angels are not solid forms but this is a _very_ solid man that is pulling her against him. She doesn’t think about any of these things as the music climbs ever higher, ever louder, so loud it must be audible upstairs, as it builds in her stomach and in her chest until she might explode. Doesn’t think about these things as she _does_ explode, into one million tiny pieces, comes apart again and again and again like she is stuck in the same production of her own demise, forced to relive it one hundred times in the space of one heartbeat. She doesn’t think about anything as the fog, the haze, the darkness eats at the corners of her vision, darkness within darkness. She can’t fight it, her soul is tired and it is hungry and he is here as she has always dreamt of, so she lets the darkness take her. Lets his music take her. 

She is flying, her soul is soaring, but if it feels like falling, she doesn’t think about it.

 

* * *

  

Of all the dreams he has ever come to her in—which is to say, many—this has been by far the strangest. A mirror that moved, secret passageways, an underground lake, and a boat. In the boat, a man, wearing a mask. A strange underworld that did not look like hell, and stars that burned mere feet from her. _Music,_ haunting and beautiful, that moved her soul to flight. 

She is awoken by the gentle song of a music box, the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. It is a curious thing, in the shape of a barrel organ with the figure of a seated monkey perched on top. The monkey is wearing robes that look strange to her, from some unknown land, and he is playing the cymbals. Christine stares at it for several moments as she becomes aware of her surroundings. 

There are several things competing for her attention. The first is that she seems to be asleep on a boat, covered in cushions. It does not feel entirely stable beneath her, and the gentle sound of water lapping the sides is audible when she shifts and the boat rocks. It is not terribly uncomfortable, but her body is stiff and sore from the awkward position atop the pillows. She is cold, she realizes, with a shiver, and she touches the fabric that covers her. It is a black traveling cloak, beaded with small stones, heavy enough that it had been fine to sleep under but now she is awake and aware she is shivering. Her own dressing gown is woefully thin, and Christine notices that the tie is lopsided; she is all lopsided. 

The most pressing thing competing for her attention is the one that is the loudest. There is organ music echoing through the cavern, loud and jarring in the haze of just waking up that does not seem to be disappearing the more she wakes up. She is not sure how she slept through the music to begin with, it is so loud, but in fact it seems that the more she listens, the more content she is to remain here, tucked into this strange nest of cushions on a little boat on a lake, and let herself drift off again. Somewhere in the part of her that has remained conscious through it all, though, Christine realizes that the music cannot just be coming from nowhere, and she rises from the little boat and goes in pursuit of the player. 

He is seated with his back to her, at a grand organ that looks like what she imagines music concretized must. The thing is a work of art itself, twisting and turning in a forest of metal flowers and leaves that leaves her dizzy looking at it. It is massive, and she wonders how it _got_ here, but that wonder is but a small concern in comparison to the mystery of the man seated before it. 

A man. A _man._ Her Angel is a man. She wants to feel betrayed. She wants to feel angry. She wants to feel any number of terrible feelings that will spur her to get _out_ of this secret and strange world. Instead, all she feels is curiosity. How strange.

His back is broad and she can see that what she mistook for thinness—perhaps even malnutrition, being underground here—is actually lean muscle. He has shucked his suit jacket and is playing now in the white shirt he wore the night before—Was it only the night before? Is it still night? There is no way of telling—but it is rumpled and loose as if some of the buttons have been undone. His fingers are bare of their gloves, and they traverse the keys with a bruising tenderness like one might touch a lover. While she watches, he pauses, the notes still echoing around them, and makes a note on a blank piece of sheet music in front of him. When he resumes playing he picks up as if he never left off, and the melody soars once again. 

Even from the back, Christine can see his mask. Something keeps it to his face, she is not sure what, but he turns his head so slightly and she is drawn by the radiant white in the candlelight. She reaches out a hand, but before she can touch it he is turning his head the other way and Christine pulls her hand back sharply, afraid of being caught. Still, she cannot shake the urge. Some part of her knows it is bad; his most important rule had always been _do not betray me,_ and somehow she knows that unmasking him, revealing his true identity even here, in the privacy and darkness of what she presumes is his home, would be the ultimate betrayal. Still, she has to know. Is he an Opera guest? Has she seen him before? Has he been in attendance all this time? Perhaps the mask is only for her benefit, so that she does not know the truth. She reaches out a hand again, but he leans forward and her fingers only manage to brush the surface. The mask is hard and cold. she does not know why she is shocked by this. It is a mask, is it not? Meant to conceal? Still, it strikes her that it does not feel like skin. It makes him somehow seem less human, and that makes the lie feel lesser. It does not erase the curiosity, though. She has to know—has to know why he has been hiding for so many months, has to know why he has lied about being an Angel when he is only a man, has to know who he is. All these answers, she is sure, lie under the damned mask. Spurred by this resolution, she takes a step forward and abandons her hesitation, lifting the mask away from his face. 

He is terrible to behold, for a number of reasons, but the most terrible of these is his anger. She has always known that he has the capacity for terrible, horrible, destructive anger, but as he explodes from the organ with an irate roar that matches the discordant tones of the keys as he slams his hands down, she realizes she has never truly seen it. She has seen annoyance, irritation, disappointment, strictness, but never _rage._ He pushes her backwards with an arm, screaming a number of names—Delilah, Pandora—and obscenities, cursing her and himself and this whole terrible night. She barely registers any of this as she loses her footing and crashes to the ground, landing on her side with a horrible crunch. The wind is knocked out of her and she tastes blood in her mouth, but all her teeth seem to be in place still so there is that, she supposes. She lies there for a moment, dazed and staring at the mask in her hand, which looks strangely small when unattached to his face. 

“Is this what you wanted to see?” he snarls, grasping her wrist and pulling her up with a great wrench, as if he does not know his own strength. 

Christine yelps, half from pain and half from fright as she comes face to face with the man behind the mask. Man is being generous, perhaps. There are some who might call him a monster. It turns out the mask was not hiding an identity, but something far worse. The right half of his face cannot even be called a face, truly, because it seems to be lacking in all the things that make up a face. The skin is marred, twisted, ragged, mottled colors that look like a bruise and a burn and a corpse all at once. Where there should be a nose there is a hole, and without his mask his mouth seems less like a mouth and more like a slash in his face. His beautiful, striking face meets this terrible monster’s in the middle like a wax doll held to a candle too long, like a statue carved from a ruined piece of marble. The effect is more than unsettling, it is horrifying, but Christine cannot look away. 

“Stranger than you could have even dreamt, isn’t it?” he spits, pushing her away again. Her leg trembles and gives way and she falls to the ground again, hiding her face in her arm as she is racked by a sob she didn’t even feel coming. “Look at you, you can’t even bear to look at me. A loathsome gargoyle, hm? A carcass? You see, now, don’t you? Why I never showed myself to you before? Why I, yearning for heaven, am trapped in this miserable hell?”

She does not respond, but she does lift her face to look at him. He is on the ground now, too, his face in his hands. Pity and revulsion war inside her, but her heart fractures for this man—this _man—_ before her, a miserable wretch.

“You can never be free,” he rasps, lifting his face to look her. She cannot help her fright, gasps, turns her face again. “Oh, Christine,” he sighs, with such tenderness it reminds her of the first night she’d ever heard him say her name, so many months ago, so many lifetimes ago. “You could learn to love me, couldn’t you?” he whispers. “To see the man behind the monster?” 

She keeps being drawn back by her own morbid curiosity. She _wants_ to look again, frightful as he is. This time, when she turns her face she meets his gaze, unflinching. He is looking at her with something that might be confused with love, some strange mix of tenderness and desperation and sadness—all the sadness of the entire world, in one man’s gaze, it hurts her own tender heart so—and Christine offers him the mask. He seems surprised, for a moment, and frankly so is she, but he takes it, turns his back and dons it once more. There is a moment, or perhaps several long moments—time is hard to measure here, with the ever present nighttime—where she gazes at his back and he is determined not to look at her. The silence stretches between them, more alarming than the music has ever been, until he turns and meets her eyes. 

She will swear for years to come that his gaze burns, but there has never been a moment like this blaze. It sets her very soul aflame. 

“Come,” he finally says, beckoning her to the boat. “We must return. Those two idiots who run my theatre will have noticed your disappearance by now, and they will begin to worry.”

The journey is much longer on the way back, which doesn’t seem possible, but Christine’s bones ache with weariness. He helps her, at times, carrying her when she grows too tired to walk, and Christine wonders if she knows just how much he has hurt her. She is processing this, this idea that her Angel is a man, and finds her heart sore at the thought. She wonders, vaguely, for the first time in ages, just what sort of game she has gotten herself into. Angels and Ghosts are all well and good, but magic and trickery and lies and deceit—this is more than she ever bargained for. She is beginning to feel trapped, or perhaps only realizing that she has felt trapped for a long time, here in this underground world. 

If it feels strange, stepping back through her mirror and into the real world again, it is _nothing_ compared to the strangeness of this dream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone who hates on raoul can meet me in the fucking pit

It was the strangest dream. Christine insists upon this fact for herself, because there can be no other explanation. The memories are hazy and confused, peppered with inconsistencies and heightened emotions, and there is no way that these things can actually have happened. Really, an underground lake, a masked man, a living corpse, the most beautiful music. She must have dreamt these things. Her Angel, a man? 

Still, even the very strangest of dreams cannot fully account for how real the memories seem. 

When Christine wakes, the pain is the first thing she notices. Before she even opens her eyes she is hit so hard she nearly throws up. Her hip is throbbing, but as she slowly gains awareness she realizes its actually her whole right side that’s throbbing, her hip and her ribs and her thigh and even her ankle. There’s a stiffness to her body like she’s walked six miles, and her feet ache to prove it. That’s nothing compared to the pain in her _head;_ she thinks it might split in two if she opens her eyes. To top it all there is pain in her very core, it seems, a dull ache she can’t quite place that seems to come from her stomach, but not quite her stomach. It’s all very _real_ feeling, but Christine can’t piece together the events of the previous night enough to account for all of these pains. 

She had made her debut as the leading soprano on the stage of the _Opera Populaire,_ that much she is sure of, and that much certainly accounts for her sheer exhaustion. Her feet and her legs probably ache from that, her head too, come to think of it, because she doesn’t remember drinking water at the reception. She doesn’t remember the reception _at all,_ actually. She remembers coming back to her room, she remembers telling Meg about her teacher—this causes a terrible pang in her chest, this sin she’s committed—and there are only hazy memories of the things that followed. A moving mirror, a labyrinth of nighttime, a masked man in a boat, terrible anger… It is all a blur, in a most unsettling way. It’s like the memories exist, but they exist just out of reach. They’re all mixed together, jumbled and confused and blurred around the edges. And then, amidst this muddled mixture of sights and sounds, a face bursts forth, brilliant and clear and smiling. 

_Raoul._

Christine’s heart skips several beats and she opens her eyes sits bolt upright, which turns out to be a mistake on all accounts. The room is far too bright. Christine had been wrong when she thought her head would split in two when she opened her eyes; it feels like it’s splitting into one million pieces, splattering her brains across the walls. She closes her eyes wave of nausea crashes over her and her stomach heaves. Someone—Christine doesn’t have the energy to find out who—thrusts a bin into her hands and she empties the meager contents of her stomach, mostly bile. Her mouth tastes terrible, and she lies back down. 

“Christine!” The voice is far too loud. It startles Christine, rattles around in her arid head, and she covers her ears out of instinct. 

When the shaking stops and she no longer feels in imminent danger of vomiting, Christine tries to open her eyes. A worried face swims into focus, dominated by wide blue eyes and surrounded by wild blonde curls. 

“Christine!” Meg says again, though significantly quieter this time. “Oh, thank God you’re awake!” 

“Meg?” Christine asks, and is terrified when the word comes out of more of a rasp than a voice. 

Meg presses a cold compress to her forehead, and Christine’s eyes flutter shut again. A dream can’t possibly have made her feel like this, can it? 

“I’ve been so worried,” Meg whispers, tucking some hair behind Christine’s ears.

Christine blinks again, managing to open her eyes this time without hurling, though the light of the room is still dreadfully bright. “The light,” she manages to say, and Meg springs into action, dousing all but three of the lamps and plunging them into twilight. 

“Here,” she whispers, offering Christine a glass of water. Meg places a hand behind her head, tilting it forward so she can have a few sips before lying back down. A few more sips, and Christine allows Meg to place a hand behind her back, sitting her up properly so she can hold the glass on her own. 

When she opens her eyes, Christine is surprised to see that she is on her bed in her dormitory. Of course that’s where she is, it’s where she must have fallen asleep after the performance. And she must have slept funny, which accounts for the stiffness in her body. Not enough water explains the headache. Perhaps she pulled a muscle, and that is why her side is aching so. Performing is strenuous, there are any number of reasons for her soreness that haven’t got to do with masked men and underground lakes, falling onto rocks or stumbling down long, unlit corridors. It is much easier to consign these things to an overactive imagination when the light is streaming in through the little window in the room. 

“What time is it?” Christine mumbles, trying to focus her eyes on Meg in the dim light.

“Nearly noon,” Meg says. “You’ve been asleep for _ages._ ” Christine realizes that Meg is in her dance clothes, and must have just been preparing for a final rehearsal before the night’s show. _The show._  

“The show,” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the chaise and trying to stand. This turns out to be a mistake, as the floor sways dangerously beneath her and she nearly falls. 

Meg catches her, guides her back to a reclining position, and picks up the compress from where it has fallen onto the floor. “Don’t worry,” she says, biting her lip. “The Managers agree, you need your rest. You won’t go on tonight.” 

“But there’s no understudy!” Christine protests. Meg is not meeting her eyes, still biting her lip. “Meg…” she says, narrowing her own gaze. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Carlotta’s back,” Meg sighs, deflating. “She returned this morning. Wasn’t terribly happy to see all the papers hailing your triumph, but thrilled when they all reported you missing. Demanded that she go on.”

“And they’re letting her?” Christine asks, though she fears she already knows the answer.

“Nobody could find you,” Meg whispers. “Christine, where did you _go?_ ” 

 _Where did she go? What on earth was Meg talking about? She’d been here all night, hadn’t she?_  

“I was _here!_ ” is all Christine says, and though Meg raises her eyebrows she has learned by now not to press for answers where they won’t be found. “At least, I’m here now, and I’m ready to go on.” 

“But they won’t _let_ you,” Meg says, “really, it’s foolish. They were thrilled when I came to tell them that you had returned, only they’ve received a whole bunch of letters from the Ghost demanding you perform and I think they’re behaving more on principal than anything else, they don’t want to give in to these demands, and so they’re going to recast Carlotta—” 

Christine holds up a hand to stop this torrent of words, it’s terribly hard to follow. “Meg,” she says, “please, from the beginning. I need to know what happened.”

So Meg launches into a lengthy explanation, telling Christine how just after the show a young man had come running, yelling about her disappearance, claiming that she had simply disappeared from her dressing room and that the door had been locked from the inside. Somebody had forced the lock and sure enough, Christine hadn’t been anywhere to be found. The whole theatre had been in an uproar, reporters anxious to speak to her about her stunning debut had suddenly seized onto this much more sinister story, and the Managers had been at a loss. This had gone on all night, but they’d made Meg go to bed, she said. In the morning, Christine had still been missing, until about nine o’clock, when Meg had gone to check her dressing room again and found her sound asleep on the chaise. Madame Giry and Meg herself had carried her here, where they thought she might be more comfortable, and where no one could reach her. 

“And then,” Meg says, “I followed _Maman_ to the office to tell them you had returned, and everyone was yelling! Messiers André and Firmin, the Vicomte, and Carlotta, all screaming at each other about notes _._ It seems they all received letters from the Ghost last night, all concerning you.” 

“What did the notes say?” Christine asks, breathless with intrigue. 

Meg smiles, wickedly, and holds up her hand. She is clutching four pieces of paper, and Christine’s eyes go wide. 

“ _Meg!_ ” she scolds. “What if they notice?” 

Meg scoffs. “They won’t,” she assures Christine. “The Managers have decided it’s a foolish prank, and they are going to ignore anything these say—Rather foolishly themselves, I think, remember the way Monsieur Lefevre tried that?—and Carlotta thinks that the Vicomte wrote hers—” 

Christine grabs the letters from Meg’s hand, cutting her friend off in the middle of her explanation. They are all written on heavy paper and—Christine’s stomach lurches—in imperious red cursive. They are sickeningly familiar, Christine realizes, because she herself has been on the receiving end of several such notes. The red sealing wax has already been broken, and Christine opens Monsieur André’s first with trembling fingers. 

_Dear André,_

_What a lovely evening! I quite enjoyed last night’s performance, and think that Christine was a tremendous success. I have been saying for years that Carlotta must be gone, and I quite think we are not at a loss without her, don’t you agree? The chorus too, was entrancing, though something must be done about the dancing; it was an absolute mess._

_O.G._

“Opera Ghost,” Meg whispers when Christine’s eyes reach the signature. She opens Monsieur Firmin’s next.

_Dear Firmin,_

_I write with a reminder that my salary remains unpaid. Kindly send it by return mail, care of the Ghost. I can assure you, it will find me. P.T.O.—_ Christine turns the note over, and the threatening message on the back sends a chill down her spine— _I think you’ll find it best to obey my orders, or run the risk of earning the reputation as a debtor._  

 _O.G._  

Steeling herself, Christine opens the next note, addressed to one Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny. It is short and to the point, but no less chilling than the rest. 

_Do not fear for Miss Daaé. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again._

_O.G._

This is by far the most unsettling. It’s a threat, Christine realizes, against the patron of the Opera Populaire. How bold the Ghost has grown, he’d never dared threaten Monsieur Lefevre’s patron. And this business of a disappearance, Christine begins to wonder whether or not she _had_ dreamt all the business of the night before. Christine feels sick to her stomach again. She presses a hand to her side and gasps in pain—not the pain of a pulled muscle—and hikes up her dressing gown to see what is underneath. Meg gasps, a hand pressed to her mouth, and they both gaze at the nasty bruise, mottled purple and yellow and green and red, that spans from the top of her thigh, over her hip, and disappears under her dressing gown. Christine can feel that it covers part of her ribs, too. 

“ _Christine,”_ Meg whispers, horrified. Christine ignores her, and opens the last letter. 

_Dear Carlotta,_

_It is with the deepest regrets that I must inform you that your days at my Opera are reaching an end. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf tonight. Do not attempt to take her place, or else._

_O.G._

Christine and Meg meet eyes. 

“She can’t seriously be considering singing,” Christine says. “She of all people should know what the Ghost is capable of.” 

“But she doesn’t think the Ghost wrote it,” Meg says, eyes wide.

“Is she stupid?” Christine blurts, before she can stop herself. 

“Carlotta was accusing the Vicomte of sending her the note, on account of him being your lover—” 

“My _what?_ ” 

“—Yes, she thinks he wants you on stage and is behind all this. When I said you had returned—” she breaks off, blushing and giggling in a very un-Meg-like manner. 

“What?” Christine presses. 

“Well,” she says, struggling through another round of giggling, “The Vicomte, he demanded to see you! Only, _Maman_ said that you had gone home because you needed your rest…” 

“The Vicomte?” Christine asks. “But I’ve never met the Vicomte. Why would he want to see me?” 

Meg is gaping at her. “Never met the—Christine, what are you talking about? He was in your dressing room last night! Everyone was talking about it!”

“What?” Christine says, bewildered. 

“The Managers let him in, he said he wanted to pay his respects to an old friend! Only, he wanted to do it alone, and everyone was gossiping because you two were alone for an awful long time…” 

“The only person in my dressing room last night, besides you, Meg, was an old friend of mine, Raoul—” Suddenly it dawns on Christine, and she feels foolish for not seeing it before. “Oh,” she says, weakly. 

“So you _do_ remember!” 

“Yes,” Christine says, feeling faint again. “Only I didn’t realize– He never said– I never knew–” She stares at Meg, mouth wide open. 

“Explain,” Meg demands, sitting on her bed and leaning closer. 

“I knew Raoul when we were children…” Christine says slowly, piecing together the facts for herself. “My father and I spent a number of months—nearly a year—in Brittany when I was twelve. We rented rooms from a wealthy family on their seaside estate, and Raoul and I used to run and play together, we were the best of friends. I never realized it was _his_ estate, that he was a _Vicomte,_ I…” Christine looks at Meg in horror. “What have I done?” she whispers. 

“So _are_ you lovers?” Meg says, hanging on to every last word. 

“No!” Christine cries, hitting Meg’s arm. “Meg! Don’t be so crude! I hadn’t seen Raoul in _years_ before last night! I was so excited to see him again, I didn’t think how it might look… The new patron of the opera and a performer, alone together…” she buries her face in her hands. “He’s going to hate me! I’ve ruined his reputation!” 

Meg openly laughs, and Christine gives her a look of reproach. “I’m sorry,” Meg gasps, through a fit of laughter. “It’s just that you’re being ridiculous. If you had seen his face when I told him you’d returned, you wouldn’t be talking like this. He was so relieved! When _Maman_ told him he couldn’t visit, I thought he might explode, he was so upset. He begged me to take him to you, but I said no, I didn’t think you’d want to see anyone! I’m surprised he didn’t come anyway, only, you know how terrifying _Maman_ can be. She gets that look in her eye and her mouth gets all thin—” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Christine says, resolutely. “The Ghost will never allow it.” 

“The Ghost?” Meg says, bewildered. “What does the Ghost have anything to do with this?” 

Christine waves Raoul’s note in her hand, weakly. “You read this. I belong to _him._ ” 

“You can’t be serious,” Meg says, gazing at Christine doubtfully. “You think the Ghost is concerned about you and the Vicomte de Chagny?” 

“The Ghost is my teacher,” Christine says. Her weariness permits no room for hesitation, and if she doesn’t say it out loud she’s afraid she won’t start believing it. “The Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera, they’re the same.” Christine explains, and once she starts talking it’s terribly difficult to stop. It feels good to have a confidant, at long last, and she hates to think what the Phantom will say when he finds out she told, but she hopes he won’t begrudge her this. Meg is trustworthy, Meg has always been more willing to respect the Ghost than the others. Christine speaks for nearly half an hour, telling her about everything; the chapel, the voice, the lessons, the dreams, the nightmare journey to the underworld that had felt so terribly _real_. Meg is an excellent audience, she doesn’t interrupt but listens intently, and sits patiently when Christine loses her train of thought, staring at a spot on the wall for several moments before she comes back to the present. 

Out loud, it all sounds utterly ridiculous. It’s no wonder Meg is gazing at Christine like she’s completely lost her mind. Christine half thinks that this is all her overactive imagination. She wants to chalk it up to exhaustion, adrenaline, too many fairy tales as a child, but she looks at her wrist, where there is a purpling bruise in the shape of a hand, and she knows that that would be more foolish than it ever was to get involved in the beginning. She pulls her sleeve down before Meg can see. 

“Christine—” Meg starts, but Christine shakes her head. 

“Don’t, Meg,” she says, glumly. “I know how it sounds, I know you don’t believe me. But I’m telling the truth.” 

“I do believe you,” Meg says, hurt at this accusation. “Only, it _does_ sound like something out of a dream.” 

“Less of dream, more of a nightmare,” Christine whispers, then sits up straighter. “I have to perform.” 

“Christine! You can’t perform! Can you even stand?” Meg says, forcing her to sit again. “The Vicomte will handle it.” 

“Meg, don’t you understand?” Christine cries. “He hasn’t a clue what he’s dealing with! None of them do! The Angel—the Phantom—he’s not a madman, he’s a genius. He’ll win this game, we haven’t a _choice_ but to play.” 

“Christine—” 

“Enough,” Christine says, pushing Meg aside and standing, ignoring the way the room spins. “I must speak with Messiers André and Firmin. Where are they?” 

“In their office—Christine, shouldn’t you get dressed?” 

Christine ignores her, barely taking the time to don her slippers before she hurries out the door of the dormitory. Her side is throbbing and frankly she’d much rather be having a warm bath and a lie down than going on a wild flight through the Opera house to stop these imbeciles before they make things worse than she’s already done. She finds the office empty, which is probably a blessing, all things considered, because she is sure that neither the Managers nor their patron will be inclined to listen to her in her sleepwear. With a sigh, Christine turns and heads in the direction of her dressing room to change before she can go to the stage and find them. The walk is grueling, but at last she rounds the corner to Dressing Room Thirteen and suddenly collides with a very solid man. She falls backwards with a little cry. 

“Christine!” Raoul cries, reaching out to steady her. He looks faint with relief at the sight of her. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” Christine says, mustering every ounce of dignity she can find, despite the fact that she’s wearing her dressing gown and her stomach had done a graceful little swoop at his touch and the room is spinning because he hasn’t let go of her elbows yet—or perhaps because her walk through the halls had been a tremendous amount of work and she feels vaguely ill again—but it is _very_ hard to do when he is staring at her with such concern in those handsome blue eyes. 

“There’s no need for that,” he teases, gently. “Raoul will do.” 

“How did you get back here?” 

“Being the patron has its privileges.” 

He is smiling kindly, his eyes are warm. Suddenly, all thought of her present mission flies out her mind. Christine is very tired. 

“You should have told me,” she says, a little petulantly. “Before I behaved like a fool.”

“I thought you knew,” he says, so genuinely that she knows there was no mal intent behind the misunderstanding. “But I have to ask, when exactly do you think you behaved like a fool? Was it letting me into your dressing room, or disappearing before I had the chance to apologize for behaving like a demanding brute? Because I need to know, before _I_ make a fool of myself again.” 

“I’m afraid I’ve ruined both our reputations,” Christine sighs. “It’s like something out of an opera, isn’t it? A wealthy patron accused of having an affair with a poor opera star.” 

“You spoke to Mademoiselle Giry, I take it.” 

“Yes,” Christine says, and suddenly her distress comes flooding back. She straightens her back, intending to give Raoul a good telling off for his plan, but it sends a sharp pain through her side and she gasps, leaning against the wall. 

“Christine!” Raoul cries again, catching her around the middle. The bruise on Christine’s side aches, and Raoul’s hand sends a shockwave of pain so great Christine thinks she’s going to faint. 

“Don’t!” she cries in pain. 

“Come, you need to lie down.” He sweeps her off her feet—quite literally—and the motion makes Christine sick all over again. Thankfully they are only steps from her dressing room, but Christine’s head is swimming so much that she doesn’t even protest when Raoul steps inside and deposits her on the chaise. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, lying with her eyes closed for a moment until the room stops spinning and the pain recedes. 

“You look dreadful,” Raoul comments, and Christine opens her eyes to glare at him. He is sitting on the chaise, by her feet, his hand resting on her ankle. 

“You would too, if you were in my position,” she snaps. To her surprise, Raoul gives a fond chuckle. 

“You always did have a temper, Little Lotte,” he says. There is a twinkle in his eye and he pats her foot, resting on his lap. Then, his expression turns serious as he catches her gaze. “But tell me, Christine,” he says, leaning forward, “what _is_ this position you find yourself in? What is going on? I’ve spent all morning with Messieurs André and Firmin talking about ghosts and angels and what other nonsense, and now I find you returned, only, frankly, you look as if you’ve gone to hell and back. Can you help me to understand any of it?” 

Her heart softens, looking at him. He really doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this mess. “Raoul,” she sighs, “there’s so much you don’t know.” 

“So _tell me,_ ” he begs. 

“I can’t,” she whispers. She looks past his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes lest her own betray something, and her gaze settles on the mirror. She wonders if he can see them. With a rush of horror, she remembers his anger when Raoul had visited her after the show. She does not think that he will be so forgiving of this trespass a second time. “Raoul!” she cries, “You can’t be here!” 

“What?” he says, bewildered by her sudden outburst. 

“You’re in terrible danger,” she says, “you can’t be here.” 

“Christine,” he says, “to hell with this nonsense about my reputation. What has got you so frightened?” 

“I can’t _tell_ you!” she cries. “Only you must know that you can’t play games with the Angel—the Ghost—you don’t understand what you’re doing!” 

“So help me to understand,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder to stop her from sitting up. “And stop trying to sit up,” he adds, “you’ll only hurt yourself more.” 

At that moment, him leaning over her on the chaise, hand on her shoulder, alone in her dressing room, the door flies open. 

“Christine!” it’s Meg, gasping, clutching a stitch in her side. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you! You ran out the door so quickly, and Monsieur André said you hadn’t been to see him but that’s where you _said_ you were going, and you weren’t with Monsieur Reyer but Carlotta was there, rehearsing the part of Elissa, and I thought you—oh!” She breaks off quite suddenly when she finally absorbs the scene before her. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Not at all,” Christine says, weaker than she would have liked. “I was just explaining to Raoul that I will be performing tonight.” 

“You’ll be what?” Raoul says, shocked. 

“Like hell you will!” Meg blurts at the same time, then covers her mouth in embarrassment. “Pardon my language, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she says, with a little nod in his direction. He looks bemused by the proceedings. “Christine,” Meg says, a note of implore behind the word. “You cannot.” 

“I think you will both find that I can, and I _will,_ ” Christine says, but Meg has her jaw set in a manner frighteningly similar to her mother, and Christine has only a moment to feel dread before her friend outs her. 

“With that terrible bruise on your side? I should think not,” Meg says, drawing herself up to her full—and rather inconsiderable—height.

“What bruise?” Raoul asks, turning to face Christine. “Christine, what is Mademoiselle Giry talking about?”

“ _Nothing,_ ” Christine says, through clenched teeth. 

Meg snorts. “Nothing my ass,” she pauses, blushes again and nods to Raoul, “Pardon, Monsieur le Vicomte.” He waves his hand at her to signal her to forget about the cursing and continue talking. “She’s got a great nasty bruise up her side, from her leg to her ribs, and she won’t say where she got it, but I just _know_ that the Ghost was involved!” 

“ _Meg,_ ” Christine says. Meg has no idea the danger she is putting them all in.

“What?” Raoul says, turning back to Christine. “You believe in this Ghost business, too?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Christine says, rather unconvincingly.

“Bullshit,” Raoul says, and both Meg and Christine look at him in surprise. “Show me this bruise, Christine.”

“I hardly think it proper–”

“Oh, to hell with propriety,” Raoul says, exasperated. “Christine, I must see how badly you are hurt. If it truly is as bad as Mademoiselle Giry says, then your performing tonight is out of the question. This Ghost nonsense is one matter, but your health is entirely another.”

“Show him,” Meg urges, quietly, but she at least has the decency to look apologetic.

Christine feels rather trapped. She knows they only have the best intentions, but everything that has happened recently has made her rather resentful towards being trapped, and the events which transpired last night have left her reeling, unsure of who to trust. Her Angel—the Phantom—is capable of terrible things, this much she knows for certain, but he also has shown her things she cannot believe. Her voice has blossomed. She has become a diva, a leading soprano, she has sung as she’s never sung before, heard things from her wildest dreams. How can she fail to trust he who brought that to her?

Still, Meg and Raoul are looking at her with such terrible worry in their faces, and Christine is finding it hard to fight her own fear.

“Christine,” Raoul says, voice thick with tenderness.

With a sigh, Christine sits up, wincing. She unties her dressing gown, conscious of not revealing _too_ much, with Raoul here in the room, and pulls aside the fabric so that he can see the bruise on her leg through the fabric of her chemise.

“My God,” he whispers, horrified.

“I _told_ you, Monsieur le Vicomte,” says Meg.

“Christine,” Raoul says, his hand ghosting over the shadow of the bruise and tracing it up her side. He follows the line of it up her leg, over her hip, traversing the expanse of her side and the ridges of her ribcage. “How did this happen?”

“I fell,” she says. Meg frowns at her.

“You fell,” Raoul says, disbelievingly.

“Down some stairs,” Christine says, meeting his eyes and daring him to contradict her. Her cheeks are on fire.

“You must see a doctor.”

“No!” Christine cries, pushing his hand away and pulling her dressing gown around her once more. “If I see a doctor, they’ll never let me perform!”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Raoul says, standing and donning his coat. “I will accompany you myself. I must only go and tell the managers that you have taken ill, and will be leaving the opera house for a few days.”

“Leaving the opera house?” Christine says, weakly. “Where will I _go_? I live here!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have it taken care of,” Raoul says. “Christine, you’re injured, and I suspect you are not being entirely honest about the nature of these injuries. Regardless, the notes which we received this morning are evidence of a threat to your safety at this opera house, and I cannot stand for it. I will not allow this opera to be taken hostage by a lunatic, and I will _certainly_ not allow you to be caught in the crossfire. This must end.”

“Raoul,” Christine protests, “you have no idea what you’re doing. The Phantom—”

“There is no such thing as the Phantom of the Opera,” Raoul says, matter-of-factly. He says it with such conviction that Christine almost believes him. “There is only God and men, Christine, and frankly, this terror seems like the latter.”

Christine closes her eyes and buries her face in his hands. She’s barely even had time to enjoy having Raoul back in her life, but now he’s going to rush into things and get himself killed! He hasn’t changed a bit, she thinks, since they were children. She still remembers the look on his face as he’d dashed into the sea in the middle of November, chasing after her favorite red scarf. He looks much the same now, arming for a war despite not knowing the opponent.

“Christine,” he says, crouching in front of her and drawing her face back to his. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, and then we shall go to a doctor. You might pack anything you need for a week away, I think it best if we distance you from this place until we’ve dealt with this nonsense.”

“But—” Christine makes to interrupt, but Raoul’s expression leaves no room for contradiction. She wishes that he would listen.

“Please, Christine,” he says. “I’m trying to help.”

“All right,” Christine whispers. Raoul gently touches her hand and rises.

“Mademoiselle Giry, I trust you’ll keep an eye on Miss Daaé while I am gone? If you could help her dress and ready, I would be very appreciative. I’ll only be a moment, to inform the managers of these developments and how I choose to proceed. Mademoiselle Giry?”

“Meg?” Christine asks, rising from the chaise. “What is it?”

For Meg is ignoring them both, staring at a letter on Christine’s vanity with terror in her eyes. “Did you not see this?” she asks, holding out the letter to the two of them.

Raoul gets there first. He takes the letter from Meg and passes it to Christine, wordlessly. It is addressed to her, in imperious red cursive. She reads it once to herself, the words sending a shiver down her spine, and then offers it to Raoul, who reads it aloud. She thinks she catches a waver in his tone, once or twice, but she is too numb to be sure.

_Dearest Christine,_

_I have received word this morning that a number of transgressions have transpired. An unfortunate thing, really, as I do believe my demands were quite simple. That being said, I recognize that you are not at fault for the behavior of the fools who run my theatre, and their idiotic patron. So, it is with the deepest care for you that I tell you: I shall take care of all, my dearest. Your Angel has never failed you yet, has he? This, it seems, is only the beginning of what is to come._

_For make no mistake, your voice still belongs to me._

_I expect that we will resume your lessons after the run of show. I expect that you will continue to be discreet about our partnership. I expect that you will not betray me._

_Should you fail to meet these demands, there will be consequences._

_I remain your humble and obedient servant,_

_The Angel of Music_

Christine sinks back down to the chaise, watching the mirror. _Is he there? Watching? Waiting?_ She can’t feel his gaze, that gaze that scorches her skin that she can now isolate as having followed her through the Opera for the past year and a half. How can this have happened? How can everything have gone from so wonderful to so terrible in only a breath? Just a night ago she had been a shining star, Raoul had burst back into her life, she’d met her Angel, and now she is here, trapped by the demands of the Phantom and the egos of her manager and Raoul’s fierce desire to play protector. It is a mess, a terrible mess, and Christine does not know for whom she fears most.

In an instant Raoul is kneeling before her. Angry as she is with him, she can’t help but look for reassurance in his eyes. It’s funny, really, how he’s been absent all these years but now he’s here it seems as if he hasn’t been gone a day. They’ve always had a connection, the two of them, and it seems absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, because suddenly she cannot bear to see a future that does not include him in it. But how can she put him in harm’s way like this, knowing what the Phantom is capable of?

“Christine?” he asks, “Do you know who sent this?”

“The Angel of Music,” Meg says, weakly, steadying herself on the vanity.

“What the devil are you talking about? The Angel of Music isn’t real! I thought that was just a story,” he says, his head turning between the two of them, searching for answers.

“I told you,” Christine whispers.

“Christine, whatever Angel haunts your dreams exists in your head. Whoever sent this note seems to pose a very real threat to you!”

“He’s not a threat!” Christine shoots back, hotly.

“So it’s a he?”

“Yes– No– I don’t know who it is!”

“Is this in any way connected to the Phantom of the Opera business I’ve been hearing about all morning?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about your mysterious disappearance from your dressing room last night? And that bruise?”

“I don’t know,” she says again.

“Are you protecting someone?”

Christine falls silent.

“I see,” Raoul says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to tell me anything more than this?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t,” she whispers, voice trembling, and Raoul softens before her.

“What do you want to do?” he finally asks. “I won’t make you leave, Christine. But I also won’t lose you again, not when I’ve just gotten you back.”

She stares at him for a long time. Her thoughts are at war. Is it betraying the Phantom if she goes with Raoul? Certainly, but can he begrudge her a week of rest, after everything? A week to sort out her thoughts and feelings, to understand? And surely wherever Raoul has planned will be far healthier and more restful than the musty halls of the opera house, or a dank underground lake.

“I–” she says, “I don’t know.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Christine,” Raoul says, kindly. “Just say the word.”

“Yes.” She is not entirely sure _she_ says it, it is more her instincts shouting over the rational part of her brain, but Raoul is staring at her with those impossibly blue eyes, and she cannot stop the word from escaping her lips. She _does_ want to go, she wants to see what life is like outside this mess of fear and secrecy.

“Alright, then,” Raoul says, patting her knee once.

“But the Ghost—” she begins.

“There’s no such thing as Ghosts,” Raoul says. “Christine, I must be to see the Managers. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we will leave.”

He’s gone without another word, leaving Christine to stare at the mirror in his absence, and Meg to stare at the spot where the letter had been.

If this is only the beginning, Christine cannot bear to see what will happen next.

 

* * *

 

He does not come to her that week. It is the longest her mind has been so clear in so long, but there are terrible consequences. She does not sleep so well, is anxious and on edge, cannot stop worrying about the Opera. 

All things considered, though, a week away from the Opera is not a terrible thing. Especially not in such a lovely place. Especially not with such lovely company.

Raoul takes her to the doctor in his carriage which, had she not been so distressed by pain and fear and anger, she would have been stunned by. How could she really not have realized that _he_ was the Vicomte de Chagny, what with the fabulous wealth of his childhood? Because he never acts like it, she supposes. The carriage is nicer than her dressing room, even, with plush leather seats inside and a door that keeps out the wind and rain and prying eyes. He has the beautiful white horses pull around to the stage door so that she can leave discreetly, and opens the door for her himself, helping her to step inside and shielding her from any passersby. They sit in silence across from each other, because Christine is so angry with the world right now she does not think she can speak, so she stares outside the window at the city slipping by. Try as she might to look mad, she cannot help but marvel at Paris as they trundle through. It has been a terribly long time since she’s been more than a block from the opera house, and she has really never seen Paris properly, despite having lived there for several years. Raoul says nothing, at least having the decency to allow her to brood in peace, but opens the door for her when they arrive and escorts her into the building, a step behind her the whole time.

He has a word with the doctor, thanks him for his promptness and discretion regarding the whole matter, and glares at him when the man makes some comment about Raoul taking rather more interest in Christine’s wellbeing than is typical of patron and opera star. Still, frustrated as she is at the situation, it soothes Christine’s nerves when he doesn’t leave the room, only sits on the other side of the screen as the doctor pokes and prods.

“Ouch,” she hisses when his cold fingers press a particularly tender spot. The doctor eyes her.

“How did you say you hurt yourself?” he asks.

“I fell,” Christine says, “down a set of stairs. The opera house is rather treacherous after dark, you see.”

The doctor doesn’t entirely believe her, and when he catches sight of the handprint upon her wrist he slides a suspicious glance in Raoul’s direction. Now Christine is angry on his behalf.

“I am ever so thankful for my dear friend for bringing me to you, Doctor,” she says, directing his attention back to her. “I trust you’ll honor our request for discretion. I think that you would find you would not want the press to know about your embarrassing injuries, either.”

This seems to mollify him, if only slightly. “Well,” he says. “Nothing’s broken, luckily. You ought to be more careful, Miss Daaé.”

“Yes,” Christine agrees. “I certainly ought.”

In the end, he tells her to drink water to help with the headache and the nausea and gives her a bottle of pills to help with the pain and sees them out the door. Christine even takes Raoul’s arm when he offers it on the way back to the carriage.

From there, she and Raoul travel to a rather posh hotel in the sixteenth arrondissement, _La Parisienne_. Raoul checks in under the name Philippe de Chagny, and carries her bag himself to the lift, where a man takes them to the very top floor. The suite is nice, too nice, and Christine turns to demand Raoul take her back to the opera house, but he is looking at her with eyes that are so worried and so desperate that her protests die in her throat.

“It’s only a week,” he says. “I’ll visit every day.”

“Won’t you stay?” Christine asks, before she can think better of it.

“If that’s what you wish,” Raoul says, inclining his head.

She does, so he does, and they fall into a strange routine. In the morning she wakes and Raoul is already up—he’s always been an early riser—reading the paper over a cup of coffee. He learns how she takes her tea—a single slice of lemon, half a spoonful of honey, and no milk, _ever_ —and the kinds of things she likes to eat for breakfast. He has them sent up from the kitchens, bowls of fresh fruit and breads and eggs, insisting that she must eat, despite the fact that she hasn’t much of an appetite.

“Christine,” he says, on the third morning.

“Yes?” she says, with raised eyebrow over her second cup of tea. His plate lies clear before them, two eggs and bacon and fresh bread from the bakery down the street, but her own lies untouched.

“The doctor said you must eat.”

“I know what the doctor said,” Christine replies, calmly taking a sip of her tea. “I’m not hungry.” She knows she sounds like a child, but it’s the truth.

“Are you going to tell me how you were really injured?” Raoul says, folding his paper and setting it down. “Or who sent you that note?” The headline catches Christine’s attention.

_Mysterious Illness of Opera Star Woes Audiences; Carlotta Giudicelli Returns to Stage_

She snatches it from the table before Raoul can stop her.

 _Miss Christine Daaé captured the hearts of opera goers last Saturday with her incredible debut as Elissa of_ Hannibal, _only to disappear just hours after the performance, leading many to speculate that the famous “Opera Ghost” had a hand in the events. Though Managers Richard Firmin and Giles André claim that Miss Daaé had only been in her dressing room that night, and state that she has since returned, she has not performed in the rest of the run of_ Hannibal, _replaced by Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, leading soprano of nineteen seasons. Miss Daaé’s debut was allegedly the result of the Signora’s brief departure due to a falling set piece, which caused concern for the soprano’s health. Furthermore, Representatives of the Opera Populaire declined to comment as to whether or not Miss Daaé would be returning to lead the upcoming production of_ Il Muto _, or if the starring role will be sung by Signora Giudicelli. They have also declined to comment on the nature of Miss Daaé’s relationship with the new patron of the Opera Populaire, one Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny._

_For a full history of the Opera Ghost see page 6, “Who is the Phantom of the Opera?”_

_For more on the upcoming season and the changes of administration at the Opera Populaire see page 18, “New Managers, New Music”_

Christine begins shuffling through the paper to page six, but Raoul puts a hand on it, pushing it down onto the table so he can see her face.

“Christine,” he says again. “Don’t read that nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” she says.

“It’ll only upset you,” he says. “Why don’t we take a stroll around the park?”

“It’s raining.”

“We can dance then, you can teach me to tango.”

“I don’t know how to tango. Besides, I thought you wanted me to rest? Tangoing doesn’t seem like resting to me.” Christine tries to tug the paper out from under his hand, but he puts his other on it too, foiling her attempt.

“We’ll talk, then.”

“We talk all the time, Raoul, I want to read the article.”

He tugs the paper from her, rifles until he finds the article, tears it out, crumples it, and puts it in his mouth. Christine stares at him, mouth hanging open and he stares back, defiant, cheeks puffed up, full of newspaper.

“What on _earth_ did you do that for?” she demands. “Spit that out right now, Raoul, it’ll make you sick!”

He makes a show of trying to chew the paper and when he is entirely unsuccessful, spits it into his napkin in the most ungentlemanly manner imaginable. Christine wants to be mad, but she bursts into laughter instead, he reminds her so much of when they were children.

“I have to say,” he says, pulling a face when he gets the last of the soggy paper out of his mouth. “Not great.” He takes a handful of blueberries and pops them into his mouth, and looks at Christine. His expression softens into something apologetic and sweet. “I’m sorry, Christine,” he says. “I just don’t want you to make yourself more anxious than you already are. Reading things about this Ghost nonsense… I fear it will upset you. You should be focusing on recovering.”

Christine reaches across the table and lays a hand atop his. “I’m not a child, Raoul,” she whispers, “and don’t forget, you have always been far more frightened of ghosts than I. Besides, I am feeling much better already.” This is not entirely untrue, her bruise has lessened and the room has stopped spinning every time she stands up, so there has been definite progress. Still, he worries, and she finds she does not fault him for that. It is not such a terrible thing, to have someone looking at her with such compassion in their eyes.

In the midmornings, he goes to the Opera for several hours to sort out business with the Managers. Christine takes this time to sing, when no one else is around. She feels less like she’s betraying her Angel this way, she still sings only for him. Her thoughts often wander to him, alone in that underground lair. Does he eat? Where does he sleep? Had there even been a house in that strange place? She can’t remember, everything is such a blur. She wonders if he misses her. She misses him, though she won’t admit it to Raoul. Raoul is disconcerted by the talk of Angels and Ghosts, and though he listens when she mentions her Angel of Music, he does so with the attitude of an investigator speaking to a witness, trying to glean more details from her stories that might help him find this terror. Frankly, though, Christine is not inclined to give them to him. She’s not sure she can stand betraying her Angel again.

Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. The longer she stays away, the more she thinks about him.

In the afternoons she and Raoul have tea. He brings scones or tarts from the patisserie, or little sandwiches with cucumber and salmon, tries to tempt her appetite with chocolate. She nibbles, picks here and there, but mostly sips her tea. He tells her news of the Opera sometimes, insists that Messieurs André and Firmin cannot wait to have her back, but she knows that he is hiding something. Knows this because the first day he is pale and shaken, and she knows there must have been an accident, just like the note had threatened. He won’t tell her when she presses, only insists that he didn’t get enough sleep the night before, but she can feel the way his eyes follow her as she goes about her day—watchful and wary.

They spend their hours taking strolls around the gardens and along the Seine, Raoul pointing out buildings he especially likes and Christine full of wonder at the vastness of Paris. Though they do not tend to wander very far, on account of his concern for her health and safety—and she does not complain because privately, these walks tire her out very much—she sees more of Paris in a week than she has in three years. When they return back to the suite they occupy themselves with games and books. Christine thinks Raoul must like it quite a lot, to be able to not behave so properly around her, the way he might be demanded by any other girl. Around her he strips himself down to his shirtsleeves, letting his jacket hang in the closet by the door and sprawling across the floor in his socks. Most of all they talk, filling in the empty years with stories of adventures and travels, their happinesses and sadnesses.

On the fourth day they are lying in the living room, telling stories as they so often do as the sun starts to go down, casting the room in a lovely golden glow. Raoul laughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes when she tells him of the time her father tried to feed a squirrel in the park one day, only to have it crawl down his jacket. He is lying on his back on the floor, his cravat abandoned, top two buttons undone and shirt rolled up to his elbows, the afternoon sun streaming across his face. Their card game is forgotten—not that she minds, he’d been winning anyways—and Christine is gazing at him from where she is lying draped across the sofa, hand dangling to the floor. He opens his eyes suddenly, the laughter catching in his throat as their gazes meet and his smile broadens, somehow. He extends a hand and catches her fingers in his own, they tangle together and he gives them a squeeze. Christine feels a sudden pang in her chest. This game they’ve been playing in the privacy of _La Parisienne_ suddenly feels painfully cruel to the both of them. They’re like children playing house, pretending that they can make a life together when they’ve barely even found each other again, and really it would be best to stop all this nonsense before Christine gets too attached. It makes her heart ache for something more, it makes her want to never return to the opera house and all she knows that is waiting for her there. It makes her want to stay here, with him, this moment suspended forever. He deserves so much better. He is a Vicomte, and though it might be fun to play pretend and reminisce on the days of their childhood spent running through wheat-fields blissfully ignorant of their difference in status, the fact is he is titled and destined for a beautiful girl from a noble family, whose father can provide a rich dowry. He is destined for a strategic marriage, one that will bring him sons that he can raise to continue the family name, not an opera rat whose name is barely ten minutes old but has already been raked through scandal and tainted by intrigue. And she? As far as she can see, she is consigned to some dark fate, some winding labyrinth disappearing into the unknown, always ruled by the Phantom.

These are the thoughts that keep her up at night. Because, try as she might to forget about everything for just a moment, she has been at war with herself. On the one hand, she is terribly afraid of the Phantom. She still doesn’t know exactly _what_ catastrophe has occurred on her behalf because Raoul has been keeping her as sheltered as he possibly can from the “Ghost nonsense,” as he calls it, but she knows that when she goes back her Angel will have words for her. She doesn’t know what conclusion they’ve reached regarding _Il Muto,_ or whether they’ve reached a conclusion at all, but the one thing she _does_ know, above all else, is that she must sing. Not for the audience and not even for her Angel, but because if she does not sing then she will have failed her father and what’s more, herself. She cannot have that night, that bizarre and remarkable night, be her only memory of being a leading lady. She cannot have come so close, have actually touched her dreams, held them in her grasp, only to have them all yanked from her grasp by the cruel bitchery of a conniving diva. So, she has resolved herself that come hell or high water she, at least, will comply with his demands. Regardless of what the Managers, Carlotta, or even Raoul have planned, she will resume her lessons and she will play his game, because that is the only way to win. That does not make her choice any easier. It does not make the prospect any less terrifying.

She tosses and turns in the dark for the first few nights, pretending to be asleep in the incredibly soft bed in the suite, but it’s no use. When she closes her eyes she sees that _face,_ demanding she come back. She questions her choice. Falters, wavers, agonizes over whether or not it is truly the right thing. It seems like the only way forward, the only way in which no one gets hurt, not even the Phantom—and that’s the strangest thing of all, that she so desperately does not want him to get hurt—but at what cost? Raoul looks at her undereye bags carefully, questions whether the pain is keeping her up, offers her the pills the doctor prescribed, but she shakes her head. The pain of her injuries is tolerable, it is the pain of this uncertainty that is terrible. She has not slept without her Angel’s presence in months, she did not realize just how impossible it would be when he took it from her. On the fifth night she gives up, leaving her bedroom and padding softly into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

“Christine?”

She jumps and she drops the cup and it shatters on the ground.

“Shit,” swears Raoul, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and hurrying forward to clean up the mess. Christine has learned that he actually swears quite a lot. He apologizes for this by saying he spent two years in the Navy. He picks up the larger pieces of glass, nudging her out of the way by gently bumping his leg against her shin. It takes her a moment to come out of her shocked stupor, shocked mostly at her own reaction. Have these months of always expecting her Angel to be over her shoulder really made her so easily startled? Apparently so. Suddenly Raoul swears again, and Christine jerks out of contemplation. He has cut himself on a piece of glass and his hand is bleeding.

“Shit,” she echoes him and he looks up, surprised, as she kneels next to him.

“Careful,” he says, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, taking a hand towel and sweeping up the rest of the glass shards and then holding it out for him to deposit the larger pieces into the cloth. She throws the whole thing in the bin, then takes his other hand and tugs him towards the table. It seems foolish to be doing all this in the dark, so she lights the table lamp. The room is illuminated by the flickering light, throwing Raoul’s features into relief. He is so handsome, even in this groggy state. Especially in this groggy state. He’s wearing a pair of pajamas made of silk—or maybe satin, she can’t really tell but they look soft to the touch—and hadn’t bothered to don his dressing gown in his haste. Christine feels exposed, in only her dressing gown and he in his pajamas, fiercely reminded that she is playing with fire here, in every part of this arrangement. She focuses on his hand to avoid meeting his gaze.

“’S not that bad,” Raoul mumbles as she examines the cut.  His voice is thick with sleep, and it makes Christine’s heart twinge uncomfortably again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you earlier.”

“You hurt yourself cleaning up a mess I made, and yet you still apologize,” Christine sighs. “What am I going to do with you, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“Tell me why you’re not sleeping,” he says, and Christine glares at him. “Let me help you.”

“Most men would ask for a kiss to make it stop hurting,” she teases.

“I’m not most men,” he says, quietly.

Christine isn’t sure what to do with this, and she meets his eyes, briefly. This is a mistake. He’s looking at her, eyes bright and clear blue like the calmest of seas in a faraway, make-believe land, and they make her want to open her heart to him, more than she’s already done.

“No,” she sighs, gently dabbing at the palm of his hand with the corner of an iodine soaked rag. “You’re certainly not, Raoul.” His fingers flex in hers and she swats at his hand because he’s going to make the bleeding worse, and the gesture is so _natural_ that Christine hates it a little bit. Is this what falling in love feelings like? Like she’s known him her entire life—and in a way, she has, she reminds herself—but all it takes is a week in his company to be so totally in over her head? Before he can respond, or she can say something stupid, she carries on talking. “Do you remember,” she says, as so many of their conversations often begin when she wants to avoid these unvoiced feelings, “when you fell out of the apple tree? You were climbing to the top because I told you I wanted an apple, but that I wouldn’t accept any but the very highest one. And you were a gallant fool, and went after it.”

“I’ve always been a gallant fool where you’re concerned, Christine Daaé,” Raoul says. He’s still gazing at her, and she is still studiously avoiding those achingly beautiful blue eyes.

“And see where that’s gotten you,” she says. “You fell out of the tree and nearly broke your neck, then, and now you’ve got glass in your hand. You’ve got to stop being a fool on my account, Raoul.” She puts as much feeling as she can into these words. She wants him to know how much it hurts, what they’re doing here, pretending like they won’t have to go back to the real world, outside this little haven they’ve built in this terribly expensive hotel room, away from the terror of Angels and Phantoms and high society. They’re about all these things, these words, because she gets the feeling that he doesn’t understand—or perhaps just doesn’t _care_ —how dangerous this dance is. This game of hearts is one thing—she knows she will end up hurt when he inevitably loses interest and goes off to marry someone richer, more beautiful, a better match than her—but his intent on engaging with the Phantom is entirely different. He has it in his head that he can win whatever game he’s playing, outsmart the Ghost without even knowing the rules, but Christine fears that there is far more at stake here than heartbreak. She will not let him gamble his life on her singing career. When will he learn?

“Never,” Raoul says, as if he’s been listening to her thoughts. Christine scoffs, softly, half-heartedly, and wraps his palm with gauze.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” she says. She does not think about how warm his hand feels beneath her fingers.

“Perhaps not,” Raoul muses, catching her hand in his before she can pull away. The gauze is rough beneath her skin. “But I don’t really care. You’re worth it.”

She isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the Phantom or this affair of hearts—both, probably—but she doesn’t get a chance to answer because his other hand has caught her face and is turning it to look at his. It’s really not fair, the way he manages to steal her breath even like this, half past God knows when, face scruffy and unshaved and hair unruly and cheeks tinged with pink. He’s trying to tell her something in that look, she knows it, and part of her—the fearless part—wants to listen. She wants to go along with whatever he’s suggesting, she wants to throw caution to the wind, lean forward and kiss him, tangle her fingers in his messy, messy hair, know him in every most intimate way. But she’s been thinking a lot for the past day about how she has got to stop fooling herself into thinking that there can ever be anything more than friendship between them, so she swallows this desire.

“Christine,” he says, “I—”

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please don’t.”

So he doesn’t, and they don’t, they just sit there, hands clasped in the lonely hours between midnight and dawn.

If either of them wants to say something when morning finally comes, they both bite their tongues. Raoul goes to fetch the breakfast tray from the man at the door, and Christine rises to stare out the window at the sunrise. Paris really is a lovely city.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought i was kidding but i'll aggressively defend monsieur raoul le vicomte de chagny until the day i die

The first time he returns to her, she thinks it is in a dream. She has not had many, these past few nights of little sleep, in part she thinks because he has not been there to sing her to sleep. She has been pondering this strange matter of time and space, wondering whether it is because she has left the opera house. Does this separation account for his sudden absence from her mind? She thinks it must, but she does not care to contemplate the implications of this revelation. His absence is a keen pain in her skull, a headache behind her eyes at the lack of sleep and the constant sharpness of the world. She wonders if it really counts as absence when her thoughts are preoccupied with him all the time, more and more as the week draws to a close. 

It has been a nice week, really, even a good one. Yet, as the old adage goes, all good things must come to an end. Christine knows it in her bones, feels an impending sense of doom on the horizon. She must go back tomorrow, this much she knows, because she made a promise to her Angel so many months ago. She will never leave him. And what’s more, she no longer wants to. A week has been enough, but she cannot fathom living like this forever, as much as she might want it. She needs his peace, needs his music, needs a promise from him that he won’t hurt Raoul. Because that, she has realizes, is what is at stake here. She will do whatever she must to keep him safe.

It’s a double edged sword, really. Somehow, someone will always be unhappy. As long as Raoul isn’t dead, she thinks she can bear her Angel’s cage again.

After their midnight conversation, Christine falls into a few hours of fitful sleep with dreams of smoke and mirrors and a muffled voice that doesn’t quite reach her all the way. She’s running, barefoot through a twisting underground labyrinth and darkness is closing in all around her. She doesn’t know whether she’s running from something or to something, but that voice, distant and distorted, calls her ever forward. She wakes before she can reach any sort of satisfying conclusion, heart pounding in her chest and skin sticking to the sheets in a cold sweat.

Raoul is already up, as he always is, halfway dressed and with his hair combed. He still can’t manage to get that little curl to stay in place, though, and it falls over his forehead like a remnant of their younger, freer days. He sets aside the paper when she enters and his eyebrows climb up his forehead.

“You look—”

“If you say I look terrible, I will pour this hot water down your shirt,” Christine says evenly. “I am getting rather tired of people telling me that I look terrible.”

“I was going to say you look tired,” Raoul says, rising. “Let me get that.”

“Sit, Raoul,” she says, passing behind him and pushing him back into his chair. Touching him sends a shock up her arm, and she pulls her hand away quickly. “I am perfectly capable of making a cup of tea.”

“We need to talk,” he says, when she sits across from him with her cup of tea. He pushes a plate toward her and she goes through the motions of buttering a croissant while she waits for him to speak. When it becomes clear that he is not going to, she looks up.

It takes a great deal of effort to ignore the way her throat catches when they meet eyes. “About what?” she says, as normally as she can.

He waits again, watching her, and she sighs and takes a bite of the croissant to appease him, looks at him as if to say: _Happy?_ He seems satisfied, and sips his coffee. “About what we are going to do,” he says, as if it is the simplest matter in the world.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Christine says. She really doesn’t. She doesn’t think she can bear it if he says something foolish— _I want you, I want to be with you, I love you_ —and she doesn’t know what she will say in return. She does not want to be the one to burst this lovely bubble they’re living in, to remind him that they’re playing make believe and a real world exists. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She doesn’t want the Phantom to hurt him.

“I meant,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly as if he knows exactly what is on her mind, “about what we are going to do about the opera.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t particularly want to talk about that, either, but it seems the more practical of the two subjects.

“Yes,” he says, “Do you want to go back?”

She laughs, she can’t help it, but then sees that Raoul had been being serious, and straightens her face. “Yes, Raoul,” she sighs. “I must.”

“I didn’t ask what you _must_ do, Christine,” he says, reaching across the table and taking one of her hands in his own. It is warm, and still soft despite the few callouses on his palms, evidence of another lifetime spent at sea. “I asked what you _want_ to do.”

Christine stares at their hands. She knows what she wants to do. She wants to let him hold her hand forever, consequences be damned. She wants to run away with him, somewhere far away, and forget all her responsibilities, her promises here. She wants him.

“I want to sing,” she says, which is also the truth.

“So you shall,” says Raoul. “Do you intend to go back to these lessons of yours?”

It is the first time he has broached the topic on his own. Normally he behaves as if he’s gone curiously deaf whenever the Angel of Music comes up, and over the week Christine has found herself less and less inclined to discuss the matter at all. She may have begun to suspect that her Angel and the Phantom are one and the same, and that, moreover, they are _human,_ but she does not see why Raoul needs to be privy to this information as it stands. She has a plan to strike a deal, to ensure that nobody gets hurt and that she continues to sing. Raoul need not know any of this at all.

“I intend to sing,” is all she says, because she cannot lie to him.

“Christine,” he says, carefully, “I must ask. Do you know anything about the Phantom of the Opera?”

“I know as much as you,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Right,” he says, looking down and frowning. She prays he’ll let the subject drop, and blessedly he does, though the next matter on his agenda is no more pleasing to her. “Then there is the matter of your living arrangements.”

“My living arrangements?” she asks. This she had not been expected. “I’ll continue to live in the dormitories, with Meg and Madame Giry.”

“Christine,” he says, biting his lip. It turns read while he chews on it, as he always does when he’s nervous, thinking things through, pondering how to proceed. She wants to tell him to stop before he bleeds, to reach across the table and run her thumb across his bottom lip, to press her own upon it and kiss him, to never stop kissing him— “I don’t think it wise for you to continue to live at the opera house.”

“Oh?”

“I think that there is someone there who poses a threat to you.”

“I don’t suppose you’re referring to the Ghost.”

“There’s no such thing as Ghosts,” he says, “the Phantom of the Opera is in your _mind,_ Christine—”

“Then explain why everyone believes!”

“Theatres are superstitious places!”

“You’re being a fool,” she says, glaring at him from over her teacup.

“Maybe so, but I refuse to believe that this man tormenting us all is some specter from beyond the grave. Ghosts don’t write letters!”

She falls silent. He’s right.

“And while we’re on the topic,” he says, “I don’t suppose you’re interested in telling me how you injured yourself in the first place, are you?”

“I thought we were talking about my living arrangements,” she counters.

“The two are related, I suspect!”

Christine sighs, makes a dramatic display of adding more honey to her tea. “I told you,” she says, “I fell.”

“Yes, yes, you fell down some stairs, I recall. _What_ stairs, Christine?”

“The stairs by my dressing room,” she says, without missing a beat. She supposes that if she squints, it’s not a lie.

“You’re lying,” he says.

“I am not!” Her cheeks grow red.

“Yes you are,” he says, leaning forward. “When you lie you blush bright red.”

“You’re wrong,” she says, primly, though she can feel her cheeks flaming.

“You’re lying again,” he says. He is infuriating, really.

“I fell down some stairs, Raoul,” Christine says again, glaring at him. “I was clumsy, it was dark, that’s the end of it.”

“ _Fine,_ ” he says, “don’t tell me. At any rate, I think you should continue to live here.”

“Here?” She laughs again. “And how ever do you expect me to afford the rent?”

“Don’t worry about it.” This, if anything, enrages her more.

“I don’t want your charity,” she snaps. He looks as if he’s been slapped. “Raoul, I will _not_ allow you to pay for my lodgings, especially in somewhere as expensive as this.”

“Christine, I would pay any amount of money if it meant it would ensure your safety,” he says, but it looks as if the fight’s gone out of him. “If it makes you feel better, though, the place will sit empty otherwise. It belongs to my brother, Philippe. This hotel is his newest business venture.”

“And what does Philippe think, pray tell, you have been doing in here with me this entire week?” Her cheeks are flaming for an entirely different reason now.

“Christine!” Raoul cries. “You cannot actually think that I would dishonor you like that.”

“It must be what everyone’s thinking,” Christine says. “That you’ve taken me as your lover.”

“No one thinks that,” Raoul says. “Well, perhaps Carlotta thinks that, but she’s a raging diva who will find any reason to spoil your success because she cannot stand the fact that you are better than her. Regardless, I explained to Philippe the situation at hand. He’s really quite understanding.”

“ _Is_ he?” Christine pretends as if this aside about Carlotta does not make her feel good. _He thinks that I am better than La Carlotta?_

“Yes,” Raoul says. “He is. And he has assured me that your continued use of the suite will not be a problem at all. In fact, he would be honored should Paris’ rising opera star grace _La Parisienne_ with her presence.”

Christine is still seething, but she cannot pretend the offer is not enticing.

“I have said before and will say again now, Christine, I will not make you do anything. All I want is your safety and your happiness. You do not have to decide now, or even tomorrow. Just know that should ever you need it, this room is yours.” Raoul stands and dons his jacket. “I must see to some business with Messieurs André and Firmin,” he says. “I’ll be back before tea. Perhaps we could take a stroll through the market and find something for dinner, I might like to cook tonight.” He says all this as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if there aren’t one million things against them, as if the world is not doing it’s very damnedest to damn them.

The kiss he presses upon the crown of her head as he leaves seems entirely subconscious, and if it makes Christine’s heart skip several beats, she resolutely ignores it.

 

* * *

 

He is waiting for her when she returns. Not at the door, exactly, but Christine can feel it from the second she steps over the threshold. There is a heaviness to the air in the opera house that makes her wonder just what happened in her absence. She makes her way to her dressing room slowly, savoring these moments alone before anybody realizes she’s back. Raoul had dropped her off with a gentle squeeze of her hand, and then gone around front to meet with the Managers about some matters of money or music. She doesn’t recall what, exactly, but she’s sure it has something to do with the Ghost. She wonders if it is typical for a patron to be so involved in the management of an opera.

Dressing Room Thirteen is warm, and the lights are on, clearly somebody knew she would be returning. It becomes apparent who almost immediately. On her vanity is a note, and Christine’s heart thumps in anticipation at the imperious red cursive. She’s missed it.

The note is short and to the point, and it chills Christine to her very bones.

_Dear Christine,_

_We have much to discuss._

_I remain your humble and obedient servant,_

_The Angel of Music_

She wonders why he still chooses to go by that moniker, now that she knows the truth, but will afford him this secrecy. She will afford him a lot of secrets, it seems, both sinister and strange, the most obvious of these being his face.

It is not so easy to forget it. It has been kept at bay by Raoul’s constant distractions and the bright light of the suite in _La Parisienne,_ but now she is back within the walls of her dressing room, facing the mirror that he had emerged from only a week ago, it comes rushing back full force. A face that was hardly a face, looming at her from the darkness. Eyes, beautiful and horrible in that strange amber color, that burn when they touch her skin. So terribly full of sadness. Remembering sends a shiver down her spine, and Christine busies herself with her book instead. In the very front is the Countess’s aria from Act One of _Il Muto,_ and her heart leaps with joy. Will she have the chance to sing again?

“Christine.” She jumps in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to come so soon. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Angel,” she breathes. She doesn’t dare turn to face the mirror. “Forgive me.”

“You ask my forgiveness, child, but continue to disobey.”

“I’m sorry, Angel,” she says, and she finds she genuinely is.

“I know you are, my angel,” he says, “but now I ask not for your apology, but your honesty. Then we shall see about my forgiveness.”

“Anything, Angel,” she breathes. “I’d do anything for you.” How terrifying it is, the way that voice rolls over her. The way the desire to disobey leaves her completely, how since she is in this sentiment.

“Where have you been all these days?” he asks. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve been with Raoul,” she says, and a wave of fear crashes over her the minute she says his name. His name is like a sudden burst on her tongue—an especially ripe strawberry, a drink of water. She remembers her plan. “I need to talk to you about Raoul, Angel.”

“Yes,” he muses. Is he behind the mirror? She does not think she wants to know. “I daresay you do.”

“I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?” he questions. There is a note of amusement in his voice that she does not like. “What kind of deal?”

“You will not hurt Raoul,” she says.

“Oh?” he says.

“You will not hurt Raoul, because I care for him deeply. He helped me after _you_ hurt me.” Christine holds her breath after this accusation, but when she is met with silence she barrels on. “You _did_ hurt me, Angel. I did not leave just because I was scared, I left because I could barely see straight. And…”

“And?”

“And I was afraid of you.”

“You would be a fool not to be.” There is a pregnant pause between them. “And I’ve never taken you for a fool, Christine. Go on, my angel.”

She hesitates, but she knows that in the end it is her honesty that will win him over. “You scared me with your anger, Angel,” she finally says, choosing the words very carefully. “And I do not like that you lied to me. You are the Phantom, I know this.”

“You know this?” he asks.

 _Is he mocking me?_ she thinks. “I know this,” she finally says. “I know this, but I will keep this secret. If only you promise not to hurt Raoul.”

“I see,” he says. “I will not hurt your precious little Vicomte. And in return, what will I get?”

Christine had known going into this that a promise of secrecy would not be enough. “My devotion,” she says. “I will sing for you, only for you. I will do whatever you ask.”

“I see,” he says again. He is silent for a long time. So long, Christine thinks he might have left. “Will he be a distraction to you? This… _Raoul?_ ” Christine does not like the way her Angel says Raoul’s name. It lingers on his tongue far too long, hangs in the air between them like a ghost.

“No,” she whispers. “He won’t be a distraction. I promise.”

“Do you remember what I told you, so many months ago, about relationships with opera guests?”

“That they are to be avoided,” Christine mumbles. She does not point out that, technically, Raoul is more than a guest. She thinks that reminding her Angel of Raoul’s power over the theatre might be a bad idea.

“And what, I wonder, is the nature of your relationship with this… _Raoul?_ ” There it is again. Christine shivers.

“He’s a friend,” she says. “Nothing more.” Her cheeks are aflame, she hopes her Angel cannot see. She hopes he does not know her tell.

“Good,” her Angel says, in a voice that tells her that he does not entirely believe her. “Because you remember, Christine, you belong to me. We are one.”

Images flash across her mind. His hands, ungloved. Her back, arched. Her mouth, open. Stars bursting across her vision, music that seems to come from inside her very soul.

“I understand,” she says, even though she does not.

“Very well,” her Angel says. “I accept your deal.”

“Thank you,” the words tumble out in a breathy rush, and if she could, she’d fall on her knees at his feet, kiss his hands if he’d let her. “I promise, Angel.”

“I take promises very seriously, Christine,” he says. “And I will know if you break this one. I am inside your mind.” The reminder is unnecessary. Even in their short conversation she has found that his voice echoes inside her head. He speaks without and speaks within, he is all the sound she hears. Her thoughts sound like him.

“Yes, Angel,” she whispers.

“Christine,” he says, in a voice that’s soft and sweet once more, “I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart. I will protect you.”

If it feels like she is making dealings with the Devil, she tells herself it’s all the same. The Devil was an Angel once, too.

 

* * *

 

He comes to her in her dreams again. She sleeps, again, soundly. Her world becomes dull and clouded, hazy with his voice at every turn, but it feels safe.

 _I will protect you,_ he whispers. _I will teach you. I will guide you._ It’s thrilling, the secrecy of it all.

And then there is Raoul. Raoul, who brings sudden bursts of light and clarity into her line of vision, whose voice cuts through all the holds of her Angel like a lighthouse through fog. Sweet Raoul, who must be startled by her sudden distance from him. She is friendly, but she does not allow him into her dressing room, does not return to _La Parisienne_. It’s better this way; she is sure that the Phantom will not hurt him, and she is sure that _she_ will not hurt him. Eventually he will lose interest and take up a suitable courtship with an acceptable match, and Christine will carry on with her life at the opera. They will be passing acquaintances. It is painful for her, but necessary. She will keep an amiable distance, the way opera singer and patron should have. They will be no more than friends, at the most.  

Her plan nearly unravels not one week in, when he corners her in the hallway near the dormitories. She suspects that he has been loitering, looking for her, as he is wont to do these days.

“Christine!” he says, reaching out to stop her. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” Christine says, smiling politely. If he is surprised or hurt by this sudden show of formality, he does not show it. Their week away is not so secret as she might have hoped, and now she must do her best to keep up the pretense of a formal relationship, lest rumors run wild as they always do at the opera, run wilder than they already are.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and those words send Christine reeling. She has half a mind to say _damn it all to hell_ right this instance, to tell him how much she has missed him too. How much she has missed talking to him, laughing with him, feeling as if there is a life away from this terrible, horrible place and the ghosts that lurk in all its dark corners.

“I’ve hardly been absent,” is all she says. “Can I help you?”

“Can I take you to dinner?” He almost foils her plans a second time, damn him, because there is nothing more she wants than to say yes. Still, she cannot help but feel that this is a test, that her Angel is watching them, though she cannot feel the tell-tale singe upon her skin. What’s worse, she does not know if Raoul realizes what this is doing to her. Dinner? Is he serious? It is all well and good for rich young men to have frivolous affairs with singers—though she is _considerably_ below his station, and she cannot imagine his family would be happy about such nonsense—but such relations run the risk of destroying her, Phantoms aside. She goes out to dinner with him, sure, and then what? They retire to their secret hotel room, they share a night together, and he goes on with his life, eventually leaving the opera while she is forced to think of him, this one light in her days. He becomes a photograph, faded and worn, tucked into her sock drawer, not forgotten but not prudent to look upon daily. A reminder of a life she stole for a week that she was never meant to have, a brief foray into a world to which she does not belong, an experiment in what her fate could be if only things had been different.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Christine says, carefully.

“I’ve never been known for my wisdom,” he says, smiling easily. “Just dinner. Lunch, if it will make you feel better. We could go now, be back before anyone even notices you’re gone.”

"I hardly think it's proper," she replies. Keeps the sadness out of her voice. Keeps the longing to herself. 

“Who cares?” he asks. “Forget what’s proper. What do _you_ want?” 

 _You,_ says her heart. “To go to rehearsal,” says her mouth.

Raoul glances at his watch, sees that he is indeed making her late, and nods his head. “Of course, Miss Daaé,” he says. She wonders if he can hear the way her breath catches when he says her name, the way her heart stutters when he looks at her. “A rain check, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” she says, but she knows it won’t happen. There are too many levels to this, too many obstacles. If the confines of French society don’t stop them, the Phantom _certainly_ will, and there is much more to lose there than a good reputation. She has gambled her life for his, and it is not a gamble she takes lightly. If staying away from him is the only way to keep him safe, she will do it. 

It would be so much easier if he did not literally light up the room every time he stepped inside, though. If his very presence weren’t a spot of brightness that forces back the shadows at the edges of her life. If his smile didn’t make her heart stutter, and if every opportunity he finds to touch her didn’t make her skin tingle. He is persistent, does not let it show if he is disappointed when she says “I can’t” every time he asks her to take a turn around the park with him. Only smiles and nods his head and says “I understand.” She wonders if he really does. 

He has, at least, learned not to press her on the matter of her mysterious voice teacher and the matter of the Phantom. Two weeks of tight lipped silences and terse, one-word answers have taught him that she cannot be swayed, and that the matter only upsets her.

“Raoul wants to know why you’ve been avoiding him,” Meg says one evening, ever matter-of-fact. She is sitting on the floor of Christine’s dressing room—her Angel has agreed that Meg is allowed inside, conditionally—hammering on the ground with her new pointe shoe, trying to break it. 

“Calling him Raoul now?” Christine teases. “What happened to ‘ _Monsieur le Vicomte?’_ ” 

“He insisted I stop calling him that,” Meg says, still hammering at the floor with her shoe. “He stops me whenever he sees me, you know. He’s like a puppy dog.” 

“Are you sure it’s my attention he’s after, and not yours?” 

Meg actually laughs out loud at this insinuation. “ _Me_ and the Vicomte?” she asks between gasps of laughter. “I can assure you that I have no interest.” 

“Oh?” Christine says, nudging Meg with her foot. “And why would that be? Don’t you think he’s handsome?” 

“ _Please,_ ” Meg says, kicking Christine back. “He is definitely not my type. Anyway, you didn’t answer the question.” 

“You didn’t ask one.” 

Meg rolls her eyes. “Why are you ignoring Raoul?” 

Christine sighs. “ _Meg,_ ” she says, “we’ve agreed. Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies.” 

Meg hates this answer, but she seems to hate this answer today more than usual. She stands, crosses the room, sits on Christine’s vanity. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demands, leaning into Christine’s face. 

“There’s a lot I’m not telling you,” Christine replies, sticking her tongue out. Raoul’s comment about the way she blushes when she lies has made her self-conscious of the act. She is trying to avoid it with these little half-truths instead. “I think everyone is entitled to their secrets, no?” 

“I’m worried about you, Christine,” Meg finally says. “And so is Raoul.” 

“I’m fine,” Christine snaps. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes before looking back at Meg, who is staring at her with narrow-eyed disbelief. She is only irritable because her Angel responds sourly to too much time spent with other people, and tends to go silent for hours at a time when this happens. She is missing the peace he affords. “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I really _am_ fine. And you can tell that to Raoul, too.” 

So she and Raoul are left dancing a strange dance around one another, polite greetings and covert glances across the stage when he stops by rehearsal, insistent messages passed through Meg. 

Rehearsal is strange, too. Everyone seems on edge around her, even Monsieur Reyer. She and Carlotta both learn the role of the Countess and the role of the pageboy, a fact which greatly irritates Carlotta. Christine thinks it best that she not inform anyone that she is also singing the role in her private lessons, and that her Angel extols her voice at every chance. The days drag into weeks stretch into two months, wherein nobody will inform them who is singing the role. Christine suspects they are doing this in part out of genuine indecisiveness about to whom to cast, but in larger part to buy time. If they give the role to Christine, they will undoubtedly lose Carlotta, and risk losing a number of generous fans of hers. However, if they give the role to Carlotta, they risk losing Raoul—though he adamantly denies having any say in the decision, and she does not ask—and, an altogether more terrifying prospect, they risk angering the Phantom. Christine can practically see the gears turning in Monsieur André’s head every time she sees him, though he smiles politely at her, and Monsieur Firmin regards her with a mixture of distrust and, sometimes, downright dislike. 

Nobody can deny that the relative quiet has been nice, though. The Ghost has not left them entirely, he still causes trouble in the flies and the costume room to show his displeasure, and harasses the Managers with notes about his salary and his opinions on the orchestra. Still, this is par for the course at the Opera Populaire. Madame Giry keeps her dancers in line, Monsieur Reyer keeps his singers and musicians in line, and the Opera Ghost keeps the Managers in line. Christine thinks that her Angel might just be keeping up appearances, though, bothering the Managers with trivial matters so that they will not pay attention to her so much. If they did, they would see how absolutely _not_ fine she is.

She has finally learned the price she paid with her promise of her devotion: her freedom. Her Angel follows her more closely than ever before. He’s over her shoulder all the time, telling her what to eat, when to sleep, what to wear. He dictates her every move, what she says, where she goes. She is powerless to stop this, _she promised,_ she has struck a deal, and he often reminds her of this fact. It is not as if she could ever forget that he has taken up residence in her mind; like a tree root grasping at the earth his voice has twined its way among her thoughts, a constant presence. Their separation had been a brief experiment in a life without him, but it is so easy to fall back into old habits. Their reunion is sickly sweet. She tells him everything again, all her thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams. She should not be so quick to let her guard down around him, but she cannot help but trust him completely. She forgets his crimes, forgives him his trespasses, if only he continues to give her his music, her voice. She does what she can to resist his thrall, lets her little moments of anger and frustration reminder that she has power, here, too, the ability to fight back, but the effort is taxing. And, she finds, she does not always want to stop him. On days when she is thinking of her father or thinking of the life she cannot have with Raoul, thinking of any number of sadnesses that plague her these days, he is a welcome friend. He listens, he cares, he lets her talk and cry, reminds her that he is there, that she is not alone. Still, there are times when his voice in her ear, once soothing, becomes grating, the chains on her wrist rub at her skin. She craves freedom, craves a little bit of light, any reminder of her free will. His casual slights about Raoul are often the impetus for her little bursts of anger, fear, trepidation, realization that this balance is not entirely fair. 

“I don’t understand why you insist upon entertaining his fantasy,” he says, rather crossly, one evening. She’s annoyed him with her wandering mind. “Or, frankly, why you continue to speak to him at all.” 

“Because Raoul is my friend,” Christine replies, as she always does. 

“He is not your friend,” her Angel sneers, “he is an arrogant little pansy who wants to fuck you.” 

The comment is angry, barbed, makes her jerk her head towards the mirror, where she suspects he hovers while she is in her dressing room. Her Angel has never spoken so crassly before, and he avoids taking such a waspish tone with her. And yet, his voice sounds so sure, it makes her guess for a moment. Is that really all Raoul is interested in? Does her Angel speak the truth? 

As if he is listening, he replies. “They’re all the same, my angel,” he sighs. “Men looking for a pretty girl to warm their sheets at night. You’re better than that.” 

“Mhm,” she hums, thoroughly unconvinced. Raoul has never made any sort of pass at her, other than asking her to what he assures are friendly lunches, has never tried to touch her, has never implied that he wants anything more than her attention and her help in picking out a new cravat. 

“Why else would he buy you such a nice new dress? Besides that he hopes to see it on his bedroom floor.” 

It’s true, a lovely new dress of swirling blues, in the style that is all the rage in the magazines right now, _had_ appeared in her wardrobe the previous week. Christine had chastised him about it, but Raoul had pretended to know nothing, only said that a rising opera star deserves nice things once in a while. She does not mention to her Angel that she had been touched by the gesture, and that, though she had not dared to wear the dress yet, she had quietly loved the dress; the pattern of the fabric, the cut, the little details of bluebells in the lace like the ones that had grown in the garden in Perros-Guirec. She cannot help but wonder if a man only interested in sex would remember such little things. 

“Raoul’s not like that,” she insists. 

“They’re all like that,” her Angel snaps. 

“You’re wrong,” Christine says. Her anger catches hold suddenly, and she curls her fists. These moments are few and far between, when she feels genuinely free from the Phantom and _wants_ to tell him that enough is enough, but when they come they most often have to do with Raoul. 

“I am not,” he replies. The words are so powerful that the fight goes out of her, she sways at her chair, steadies herself with a hand on her vanity. “Christine…” he murmurs. “I do not want to see you hurt. I care for you, as no one else does. As no one else can. I have seen what men like him do to girls like you.” 

“He’s different,” she says, quietly. 

“I doubt it,” says her Angel. Is there sadness in that voice? Perhaps, but there are so many other things, too, that it is almost indistinguishable. 

“Would it hurt to have dinner with him?” It is a fool’s wish, she knows. Her Angel will never allow it. There is too much that could go wrong, too great a risk that he could lose her. Still, Raoul’s face swims in her mind and she _misses_ him, not the sickening ache she feels when her Angel leaves her, but a sharp pang that cuts to her very heart every time she sees him. 

“You belong to me. Do not forget.” The voice brings her back to the present, pushes Raoul to the back of her mind. It is silken smooth and honey sweet, pouring over her like the water of a warm bath. Even threats would sound pretty in that voice. 

“I know, Angel,” she says. She does know. She has been thinking a lot about That Night, about their journey underground, about his hands on her skin and the ache in her core and the fact that he does not ask, he just takes, in all aspects of their relationship. He gives, too, she tries to tell herself, he has given her her voice back, has given her this connection to her father, but she cannot help but feel like she has the losing end of this bargain. 

If she regrets her deal at all, even a little bit, she does not let herself dwell on it. Raoul’s life is worth this, whatever he chooses to do with it.

 

* * *

 

Strange things never stop at the Opera, but stranger things begin again as they near the opening night of _Il Muto._ This game has been going on for weeks, her Angel teasing her about Raoul but in the next breath assuring her that he will make her a great star, that she is the best singer to grace this stage in its entire history, that she will be the leading soprano again. Christine does not like to rest on her laurels, has never been one for pride or arrogance, but she knows that her voice _has_ improved quite a lot over the last few weeks. It is even better than it had been on the night of _Hannibal,_ which is a blessing because _Il Muto_ is significantly more difficult. Messieurs André and Firmin have still not said who is to play the Countess, but Christine is certain that she has outperformed Carlotta in every rehearsal. Her voice aside, her acting has improved leaps and bounds, and her confidence tenfold. 

 _They would be a fool not to pick you,_ says her Angel’s voice in her ear as she runs through Act Two yet again. 

The Opera Populaire is run by fools, though, and Christine should know better than to guess at their decision making processes. It is the evening of the performance and she still hasn’t the faintest idea whether she will be going on for the Countess or not, but these things are out of her control. She begins the process of putting on her makeup nonetheless, when she is interrupted by an almighty clamor that startles her so much she nearly falls from her chair. 

“There’s been another note,” Meg gasps, bursting through the door to Dressing Room Thirteen without knocking, out of breath and bun askew. “I thought it was all nonsense, but… here.” 

_Gentlemen,_

_I trust you have received my previous correspondence, and will agree when I say I believe I showed quite admirable restraint in my amiable nature. However, it seems you do not fully grasp the position which I hold, here. It is rather simple. You see, this is, and always has been,_ my _theatre. You are permitted,_ by me, _to run it in my stead per my directions, and should you not comply satisfactorily, you will no longer be permitted to do so. Thus far, you have not followed my instruction. I shall give you one more chance:_

 _I have ensured that Christine Daaé returned to you, and I, her teacher, am anxious that her career should progress. She will be your leading soprano. I trust you will agree that the loss of Carlotta is not so much a loss, but rather an opportunity to showcase an incredible new talent. Therefore, you will cast Carlotta as the pageboy in the new production of_ Il Muto, _and Miss Daaé as the Countess. I do believe that the charm and appeal required of the Countess makes Miss Daaé most suitable to this role, and that the role of the pageboy—a silent role—is rather ideal for La Carlotta._

 _I will watch the performance from my usual seat in Box Five, which_ will _be kept empty for me. Should these commands not be met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant,_

_O.G._  

Christine stares at this note in horror. If everything before weren’t evidence enough, this is concrete proof. Her Angel is the Ghost is her teacher is a man is pulling the strings behind the Opera, like they are all puppets in some sick, twisted show. She already knows the part—her Angel has been planning this for much longer than any of them have seen. What’s terrible is that she doesn’t even have a moment to be happy, she’s so quick to be angry that he thinks she can’t do this on her own. Meg’s next comment only makes her feel worse. 

“They’re rejecting his demands,” she says. “You won’t have to do this.” 

“You’re kidding,” Christine says, flatly. “Didn’t they read this? ‘A disaster beyond your imagination…’ What are they thinking? That he’ll just forget?” 

“You know Carlotta,” Meg says. “She threw a fit! And they assured her that she will be playing the Countess!” 

“But surely Raoul—” 

“Christine, he agrees!” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“He thought it was best, to keep you safe! We were talking, he and I, and we both think that this Angel of yours is something much more sinister. I told him about the Angel—” 

“Meg!” 

“—and he said that you had said the same to him! And these notes, Christine they’re obviously the work of a madman! But Raoul, he was so worried about you, he thinks this man is out to _hurt_ you! So he said that these demands _must_ be rejected, and I quite agree. It seems he has a plan, Christine, he’s going to keep you safe from this lunatic. There’s someone _after_ you, Christine, you’ll be putting yourself in terrible danger if you perform!” 

“But you’ll all be in much worse danger if I don’t,” Christine insists, standing up. “I must put a stop to this.” 

“Christine you _can’t_!” Meg says. “He can’t make you do this!”

“Meg, I must!” Christine cries, in anguish. “You don’t understand!” 

She finds herself saying those words a lot these days. Meg doesn’t understand, Raoul doesn’t understand, even her Angel—the Phantom, she reminds herself—doesn’t understand. But most of all she says them to herself. She does not understand what she has gotten herself into, this game where someone could end up dead if she makes the wrong move. Her Angel has complete power over her, she knows this, and she should be relieved that he has only chosen to wield it to put her on the stage, but everything feels inexplicably wrong. She feels very trapped. She cannot go to the Managers and demand to sing—How would that look?—but if she stands by, if she lets this happen, someone will get hurt. Her only consolation is that it will not be Raoul, if the Ghost keeps his word, but what of Meg? Madame Giry? Monsieur Reyer? Or any number of other helpless individuals liable to be caught in the crossfire of his rage? Christine feels a chill down her spine. He is a man capable of terrible things, she is sure, if his minor tantrums are any indication, and she does not want to know how far he'll go if he is pushed. Still, she is alone in this knowledge, and she realizes with sudden hopelessness that even if she _were_ to tell someone, no one would believe her. Raoul doesn't believe in Ghosts and the Managers think this is all some scheme, nobody will understand that the danger they are all in. It is, of course, exactly what he has planned, she sees that now. She is alone with only him to turn to, powerless to stop it without risking Raoul's life. How could she have been so  _foolish,_ to think that she could outsmart him? Instead of keeping Raoul safe she has only ensured that everyone is in danger, now, if she goes along with this plan, and if she doesn't? If she tells his secret? She breaks her promise, and Raoul will surely die. 

“What don’t I understand?” Meg demands, dragging her attention back to the present. “Christine, _who_ is doing this?” 

 _Do not betray me,_ says her Angel’s voice in her ear, but Christine fights against it. This is not what she bargained for. _Do not betray me. Do not betray me. Do not betray me. Do not betray me._  

“It’s him,” is all Christine manages to gasp. The two words take all of her energy, and she has to sink to the chaise. She catches sight of herself in the mirror—pale and shaken—and for a moment she thinks she feels those eyes burning her with reproach. “My Angel,” she finally says.

Meg is looking at her like she’s grown a second head, but Christine hasn’t got any time to dwell on it before Madame Claude bustles in, blustering about last minute costume changes and how _lovely_ Christine would have looked in the Countess’s dress. She shoos Meg out of the room—amidst her many protests—and helps Christine don Serafimo’s clothing.

 _The pageboy._ She wants to be angry, to be hurt, to be scared, but she’s too numb to feel anything other than anguish. It’s a memorable role, certainly, one that will have audiences talking about her again, but she doesn’t get to sing. Not a note. Everything she has done, the pains she has taken these past two months, the suffering she has put herself through, it’s all been for nothing. She won’t get to sing and everything her father had ever wanted for her will only ever have been realized on that one night, that night that she can’t even bear to think about because it seems so _real_ and she’s beginning to suspect that it wasn’t a dream at all. Suddenly it does not seem so out of the question that her Angel—the Phantom—walks among them in more than just a ghostly form. She’s been writing Raoul off as a fool all these months, with all his talk about a lunatic writing letters, but it seems much clearer this way. She has been letting her imagination run wild, letting willful ignorance control her, has fallen prey to this Phantom inside her mind, and now she fears something terrible. Raoul had been right all along, he just doesn't know exactly  _how_ right he had been, or what terrible things that means.

Raoul’s face bursts into her mind, brilliant and beautiful and smiling, and it erases all Ghostly haze from her with such force that she thinks she’s going to be sick. She bends over, catching herself on the vanity, and Madame Claude frets, thinking she’s pulled the corset too tightly. 

“I’m so sorry, dearie, it’s ever so difficult to make you appear as flat as a man,” she says, trying to adjust with her fingers. “Do you think you can still sing like this?” 

“Raoul,” Christine gasps. 

Madame Claude titters, loosening the ties and the beginning to refasten them. “Monsieur le Vicomte? Yes, Madame Giry said he’s been asking after you quite a lot recently. Charming, isn't he? And such a handsome boy. I hear he was most upset by the proceedings this afternoon… Dreadful business with the Opera Ghost again, you know…” 

“No,” Christine says, straightening. “I mean I have to _talk_ to him.” 

“Well, he’ll be sitting in Box Five tonight—rather brave, if you ask me—but I hardly think there’s time for that, dearie. I’ve been given clear instructions to walk you to the curtain.” 

It’s no use. _It’s no use._ Butterflies erupt in Christine’s stomach, terrified at the prospect of walking on stage amidst this plot. She is not sure what, exactly, is going to happen, but she cannot imagine it will be good. And Raoul, in Box Five? She can only hope that the Phantom is willing to hold up his end of their bargain, and refrain from harming him. The wings are alive with pre-show excitement, and Christine realizes, as Madame Claude steers her towards where the rest of the principals are waiting, that most of them haven’t a clue what is happening. Carlotta sneers at her from beneath the ridiculous wig but Christine scarcely notices. She’s scanning the backstage bustle for anyone who can put a stop to this. There isn’t the time. The orchestra is readying itself, the cast falling silent. All she can do is go on stage and play this mute part and hope that nothing happens, that she will have the chance to put things right. 

It is, of course, too much to hope for. 

Things are all right for the first act. Carlotta is dreadful, as Christine knew she would be, she is overbearing and smells of perfume that makes Christine’s nose itch when they must pretend to be lovers, but Christine plasters a smile on her face, plays the part, behaves like a man in ladies’ dress. Halfway through the second act, though, things begin to fall to pieces. 

 _DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?_  

His voice, magically magnified by a hundred times, is deafening. It echoes around the theatre, people gasp, the actors throw terrified looks to one another, and Christine claps her hands over her ears. Whatever everyone else is hearing cannot possibly compare to the thundering in her brain that makes her brain rattle against the inside of her skull. She cannot help the scream that comes from between her teeth. 

“It’s him!” she cries, drawing the attention of the crowd, which has fallen silent in the wake of his pronouncement. “He’s here!” 

“Your part is silent, little toad!” Carlotta snarls, grabbing Christine’s arm and wrenching it away from her ear. 

_A TOAD, MADAME? AN INTERESTING PROPOSITION…_

It is no less shocking the second time around, and Christine thinks she is going to keel over with the pain of it all, it is splitting her head in two. She has always been able to hear him, even when others have not. This seems less a blessing and more a curse, now. The audience seems to know that something is wrong, now, that this is not some impressive acoustic trick, not at all part of the plan. They are whispering amongst themselves, now, casting fearful glances into the shadows. 

To her credit, Carlotta makes a valiant effort at proceeding. She clears her throat, forces Christine into something that resembles a chokehold so that she does not fall to the ground, and begins from where she left off. Monsieur Reyer is so shocked it takes him a moment to pull the orchestra into shape, but it’s no matter because not four bars in a terrible noise comes from Carlotta’s throat. She is so shocked that she drops Christine, who crashes to the stage, gasping for breath and rubbing her neck. Carlotta stops, mortified, clears her throat, and tries again. Christine scrambles to her feet before the Signora can grab her again, but again Carlotta’s voice comes out a croak. She sounds like a toad being squashed under someone’s boot, over and over again, and really it would be funny, if Christine didn't know who is behind it.

_BEHOLD, SHE’S SINGING TO BRING DOWN THE CHANDELIER!_

As if in response, the light fixture in question flickers dramatically, and a few people in the audience scream. Christine can see Raoul rushing out of Box Five, and she can only hope he has the sense to _leave._ With an irate shriek and another croak in Christine’s direction, Carlotta dashes off the stage, followed by Piangi. Christine is spared the terror of having to say anything as Madame Claude and Madame Giry rush on stage and pull her into the wings. Monsieur Firmin is announcing on stage that the production will continue in ten minute’s time, with Christine herself singing the role of the Countess, and is calling for the ballet from Act Three. Ballerinas run by as Madame Claude and Madame Giry pull Christine out of Serafimo’s breeches with no regard at all for the bareness of her legs and shove her into the Countess’s dress that Madame Claude had been so upset about earlier. They’re just lacing up the corset and fastening a lovely green cloak around her neck—there’s no time for a wig, they say, the ballet is already coming to an end—when a terrible scream rents the air.

Christine would recognize that scream anywhere; it’s Meg, screaming one terrible, unbroken note, agonizing and clear, for several long moments until realization strikes other people and more screams fill the air. Christine throws off Madame Giry’s hands and runs to the stage, fearing the worst, where she is met by a scene from a nightmare. The audience is screaming and Meg is in tears, pointing and gaping in horror at a body— _a body—_ hanging from the rafters above her. Christine claps a hand over her mouth as she realizes it is Buquet, his feet dangling limp and his neck bent at a sickening angle, a brilliantly red rope around his neck. She feels her knees give way, feels bile rise in her throat, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes away until suddenly a tall body is blocking her view and a pair of strong arms are around her, forcing her to turn around and guiding her through the chaos backstage.

“Come on, Christine,” someone urges, and Christine realizes through waves of shock and fear that it’s Raoul who has her in his arms, “we’ve got to get to your dressing room, we’ve got to _go._ ”

“No,” she gasps, breaking free. “Not there!”

“Christine!” he cries, lurching after her, but she is already running, plunging herself into the crowd and hoping he is behind her.

Stranger things have happened, certainly, but none so terrible as this. If her Angel is watching, if she feels those eyes upon her back as she runs and Raoul follows, desperately calling after her, she pushes onward, not thinking, not feeling, just running.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never read the book but i've read enough fanfiction to know that raoul has a brother named philippe

He had told her, once, that the opera house was full of secrets. The best kept among them is the roof, only reachable by a discreet door tucked above the fly-space. Christine has only been there a handful of times, when the opera house became too suffocating and her Angel was willing to compromise and let her out, but not _really_ out. It is not an easy trip to make, and he’d coaxed her through the treacherous catwalks above the stage and exhausting spiral staircase with promises of another world, of seeing all of Paris without having to leave at all.

Raoul doesn’t ask questions, only gives chase as she flees, pushing her way through the crowd and struggling not to trip on her skirts. For a moment they are children again, playing tag in the orchard as he runs after her, calling “Christine, wait!” But she urges herself forward, with no care at all for her heaving lungs as she leads them up the stairs to the roof. They climb in ever tighter, dizzying circles, and Christine nearly breaks an ankle in her heels as she runs forward. The only thought keeping her going is getting away, as far away as possible, from the nightmare downstairs, and taking Raoul with her. It is warm as she rushes through the rafters, with scarcely a thought for her own safety as she hurries towards the door she knows leads _out._ It’s a miracle that she hasn’t caught any of this mass of fabric on anything, but she feels it weighing her down nonetheless. It’s exhausting, running with all this, but she keeps going. At last she reaches the door and bursts forth into the cold nighttime air, running as far as she can from the door. Raoul is only a second behind her, the door banging shut after him as he stumbles onto the roof, chest heaving and clutching a stitch in his side.

“ _Christine!”_ he says, between breaths. “Why have you brought us here?” 

“We can’t go back!” she cries, turning to look at him. Fear is the only thing she can feel in this moment, she’s sure right now that it’s the only thing she’s ever felt.

“What? We must return! People will worry!”

“We _can’t!_ It's not safe there, not while he's watching! He’ll find us there, don’t you understand?”

“Christine, come now, we cannot stay here!”

“Don’t take me back there!” she gasps. Why doesn't he understand? “He’ll kill you, Raoul! He’ll kill _me!”_

“Christine, don’t say that, don’t think it! You’re only upsetting yourself!” Raoul looks terrified, and he reaches a hand out to her, but she takes a step backwards. He puts his hands up, steps back. “Christine, please come away from the edge!”

“Raoul, you don’t understand!” she cries, “He wants me with him and he wants you dead! He killed Buquet, he doesn’t care what he has to do, don’t you see? He’ll kill a thousand men if he must!”

“This is a terrible accident, a nightmare, but nothing more!”

“The Phantom of the Opera—” 

“Is a fable!” he says. “Believe me—there is _no_ Phantom of the Opera!”

She ignores him, because he’s insisted on this fact but he’s _wrong,_ and she knows this with one hundred percent certainty now. The Phantom—her Angel—he is a man who is willing to _kill_ to get his way, who has been haunting them all like a terrible dark specter but is more deadly than any of them have realized until now. 

“My God,” she whispers, raking her hands through her hair, causing Madame Claude’s hasty pinning job to fall out. “Who is this man? This killer?” The world is spinning dangerously, and she swears she sees something move behind the golden statue of Apollo. Her heart gives a nasty lurch. “God,” she whispers, “I can’t escape him, he’s everywhere, he’s in my _mind_ and now he’s come to haunt me in the flesh. I’ll never be free.” Raoul has clearly had enough of her teetering near the edge because he grabs her hand, pulling her away from danger.

“Who?” he demands, wild and confused. “ _Who_ can’t you escape? What does any of this have to do with this voice you’ve been hearing, Christine?” Raoul asks. 

“He’s here, Raoul,” she says, quietly.

“ _Who’s_ here?” 

“The Phantom of the Opera, he’s the one who is inside my mind!”

“There is no Phantom of the Opera!” he declares, shaking his head with frustration. She is so annoyed she shoves him away from her, turning on the spot, scanning the shadows. “He is inside your mind only, not _here,_ Christine!”

“Raoul,” she gasps, and it is his name that gets his attention, his name said with such desperation; he stops his insisting, looks at her, really _looks_ for a moment. “Raoul, I’ve been there—to his home.” Raoul is shaking his head at her in disbelief and frustration, perhaps even skepticism, she can see it, but she barrels on without giving him the chance to speak. “It’s this terrible place, this terrible underground cavern where there are no stars, only candles, no daylight, only darkness.” She grabs him by the lapels, forcing him to listen to her, and he looks at her with some incomprehensible expression on his face, nodding as he pulls her into his chest, arms wrapping around her in the most steadying embrace. She does not know what it is that makes him stop protesting, is unsure if it’s the fear, the desperation, her hands fisted in the fabric of his jacket, but he’s listening, pressing his cheek to her head and rubbing his hands against her shoulders to keep her warm as he holds her close to his chest. It is this that keeps her going, this feeling of his arms, and the fact that she’s afraid that if she stops talking she’ll never get the courage to start again. “I’ve seen him. His face—It’s the face of a man, only I can hardly call it a face, Raoul, it’s so distorted, deformed—I can never forget it. It _haunts_ me. And just the thought of this terrible man living alone in the darkness…” Something tugs at her heartstrings as she remembers, between the terror, between his touch, there had been something else… Music, sweet and beautiful, like she’s never heard before. “But his voice,” she whispers, drifting, her grip loosening on Raoul’s arms. He grasps hers, in turn, holding her upright as she finds herself remembering. “It’s otherworldly. It moves me, Raoul, has been moving me for months. It’s the strangest thing, so sweet, so sinister, the strangest secret… When I was there, we were surrounded by music—the kind of music that makes your soul sing and I– I’ve never heard anything like it. My very _soul,_ Raoul.”

He is gazing at her like he is unwilling to believe the words coming out of her mouth, for her sake. “What you heard,” he says, carefully, voice wavering as if he is trying to convince himself more than he is her, “was a dream. It was only a dream.”

“His eyes,” she says, “he had the strangest eyes. Yellow, or amber, maybe, but that’s not even the most striking thing. They were so sad, Raoul, like he had all the sadness for the entire world. I’ve never seen sadness like that, never hurt for someone like that. And the way he looked at me… I’ve never been so scared, but so unafraid. I trusted him, trusted that he’d never hurt me.” She is drifting, again, doesn’t realize that she has drifted out of Raoul’s arms, wandering towards that darkness, feeling the strange sense of calm that always comes over her when _he_ is around, and she sways, dangerously close to edge once more.

“Christine!” Raoul cries, reaching a hand out, not daring to touch her. “Christine, please, just come to me, just step towards me, before you fall.”

_Christine…_

It is so soft she almost thinks she imagined it. It is the last thing she wants to hear right now—or is it the only thing she wants to hear? The power of that voice is so strong, the tide of dizziness almost enough to send her back into his power, only Raoul is standing before her and her heart is still racing with fear, and she can’t stop seeing Buquet, hanging from the rafters.

“What was that?” she gasps. Suddenly there is a sob building up in her throat, and she takes a blind step forward, sinking to the ground. Raoul is gazing around the rooftop as if he heard something too, but when he sees her he holds his hand out, waiting until she takes it to pull her up and into his embrace. 

“Christine,” he sighs, relieved. He catches her in his arms and _oh,_ is all she can think, _is this what it is like to be held by a lover?_ It’s a dangerous thought, but she can’t really bring herself to care because his arms are strong and safe and warm and he is holding her so tightly to his chest, combing one hand through her hair, ridding it of all those damned annoying pins and untangling the curls from the back of her dress. His other hand is pressed against her spine, warm on the small of her back as his thumb rubs soothing circles that she can feel, even through the ridiculous layers of her costume, like shockwaves on her skin. She presses her face into his chest, forgetting of staining his shirt with her makeup, and inhales deeply. He smells like cologne and a laundry service and something that she can’t name but is very distinctly _Raoul._ She scarcely even realizes she’s crying, and doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed, though she knows she should be. He doesn’t seem to mind, just holds her tighter until the shaking subsides and the great, racking sobs give way to smaller, more manageable breaths.

“Christine,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “no more talk of this darkness, yes? I’m here, and I won’t let any harm come to you. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I’ve got you.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and he nods, pressing another kiss to her head. “That’s it, it’s okay.” She can’t help but believe him. She can hear a tremor in his voice, so different from the smooth velvet of the Angel’s, and she finds that it is somehow far more reassuring to know that he is unsettled, too. His voice is real, warm, rumbles in his chest as he speaks. “Tell me how to help you, tell me how I can make this end.” There is a touch of pain there, as if it hurts him to see her so upset.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she whispers.

 “I’ll get you out of this mess, Christine,” he says, “and we’ll go away. Far away, wherever you want. Somewhere safe, where your fears can never touch you. Somewhere bright and beautiful, where the sun is bright. To the country, or by the sea, perhaps.” He is looking at her with those eyes that are so clear and earnest she could get lost in them, so open, so totally opposite the haunted gaze of her Angel. Another sob racks her body. This is terrible, all of it, because she has never wanted anything more than what he’s saying, but she’s terrified. Terrified that _he_ will find them, terrified that Raoul only wants to help her out of pity, terrified that he will throw his life away for her. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “No more tears, I’m here, I’m right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

“All I want,” she gasps, “is to be free. I want an end to this darkness. I want—” She stops. She will not voice what she wants, not when it will only hurt them both.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears. It has been so long since somebody truly asked her what she wanted. She wants to tell the truth.

“You,” she whispers. “You, with me, wherever I go. I want you to hold me and never let go, Raoul, I want you to share in every day with me, the mornings and the nights, the good and the bad, all of it. I want you to need me, I want you to love me, I want you. I _need_ you.” She’s crying, now, because she knows it can’t be, but now it is all there, all out in the open, and he can do with it what he wants. She can’t bear to look at him. 

“Christine,” he says, but the tone of his voice has changed. There is sadness, there, too, pain and longing, the bitter taste of things better left unsaid. She thinks she knows where this is going, where she wants it to go, and she has to stop it. It will be better if this does not hang between them, does not mar this delicate friendship they have. But part of her—a rather large part indeed—does not want to stop him. She wants him to speak, she wants to say yes, she wants to forget this waking nightmare and be caught up in his light. 

But this is the real world, and she cannot. “Raoul, I _know._ I know that we aren’t meant to be, I know that the most we can ever have is friendship and believe me when I say that’s enough, it’s more than enough, if that is the only way that I can have you in my life that is _fine,_ I’ll take it, but you asked and I’m terrible at lying to you, so I’ve said it and I can’t take it back, I _won’t_ take it back _—_ ” 

“Please, Christine,” he says, “let me finish.” He takes a deep breath— _Is he nervous?—_ and holds her at arm’s length, looking down into her face. “I know that now is perhaps not the best time to say this, with everything going on, but you’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding me and I haven’t had the chance, and I fear if I don’t say it now I’ll lose my courage and never say it.” 

His face is unreadable. She stares at him, hardly daring to speak. “Say what?” she whispers. 

“I don’t want to be your friend, Christine.” 

“What?” she says. That had certainly _not_ been what she was expecting. 

“No– I mean, being your friend has been the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.” 

“ _What?”_  

“I want to be more than your friend!” Raoul says, thoroughly flustered. “I _want_ to share your happiness, your sadness. I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake, and the last thing I see before I fall asleep. I want you to tell me about your days and your nights and I want to share every adventure with you. Christine, I’ll do anything for you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, if you’ll have me.” 

“Raoul,” she whispers. Her heart aches. She can taste her tears, salty on her lips. “We can’t.” 

“Why?” he asks, shaking his head. “Because I’m a Vicomte? Because other people might talk? Because of your Angel of Music? I’m telling you, Christine, none of that matters, not to me. The only thing that matters is you, and I, and whatever our hearts decide. Whatever else, we can deal with it together.” 

“It’s more complicated than that,” Christine says. 

“Let me make it simple, then,” he says. He takes one of her hands between his, presses it to his chest. Beneath her palm she can feel the beat of her heart, steady, solid, reassuring. He drops his head, eyes closed, his forehead resting against hers. “Do you feel that?” he whispers. “It’s yours, should you want it. It has always been yours, it will only ever be yours. My heart belongs to you, Christine. I want to share my life with you, and only you, so long as I shall live.” 

“ _Raoul._ ” She won’t tell him, but she knows when he’s lying, too. The right corner of his lip twitches, almost imperceptibly, but she has spent enough time staring at his lips to notice it. The most subtle of movements, one she doesn’t think he’s even aware of. She’s searching for it now, looking for that tell-tale twitch that will pull the rug out from under her and send her back to where she belongs, but it’s nowhere to be found. His eyes are still closed, like if he’s afraid that if he opens him this spell will be broken. She can see pain and anxiety in the lines of his face—wants to kiss the crinkling in his skin away, soothe that worried brow—while he waits for her answer, still clasping his hands to his chest. He has bared his soul to her, opened his heart, let her hold it in the palm of her hand; she can still feel it beating, steady and true, had felt it flutter as he said those words. “Forever?” she whispers. 

“If you’ll have me,” he says. “Just say the word, and I’ll do it all. Whatever you need. I’ll do anything.” 

“Say it,” she says. “I need to hear it. I need you to—” 

“I love you,” he whispers. He says it like a gift. Like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever said in his life. Like it’s a privilege, a treasure, the taste of summer peaches on his tongue, a breath of fresh sea air in a musty room. “I love you, Christine,” he says again, louder. “You must know that. I love you, I’ve loved you since I was fourteen, and I don’t intend on stopping, everyone else be damned. I _love_ you.” 

“Raoul,” she says, taking his face in her hands. How can this be real? How can he be standing before her, saying these words, asking her to return them? She has half a mind that she's dreaming, this is all a cruel trick and her Angel will soon appear, reminding her that matters of the heart lead only to pain. If it is so, she still wants to say it. If it's a dream, it's the most beautiful dream she's ever had. “I love you _._ ” The words are foreign on her lips. It’s been over three years since her father died, the last person she’d told she loved, but this is different than even that. They are like a song, tingling in her mouth and pouring from the base of her lungs. They are like an open window in the summertime that lets the breeze in, they are salty and sweet on her tongue like caramel, they are a burst of warmth filling her from the inside out. They are the most beautiful words she’s ever said, and she could say them over and over again and again, revel in that feeling and in the look on his face—joy, overwhelming joy, and disbelief, like he can hardly believe his luck—as he stares at her, taking this in. 

He doesn’t give her the chance to say them again before his lips are on hers, warm and soft and sweet, gentle but assured, like they’re made to do this. She throws her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and he kisses her harder, holds her tighter. She decides this can't be a dream because this touch— _his touch_ —is so, delightfully real. It is sending shivers up and down her skin, pleasant tingling that makes her feel so alive she might burst. She will not let him go, not now that she has him, that she knows that _this_ exists. She could spend the rest of her life here, in this moment, wrapped in his arms with his lips upon hers and her hands in his hair, impervious to fear and worry and the slight chill of the nighttime air. 

“That’s all I’ll ever ask,” he murmurs against her lips and she smiles, laughter bubbling forth as he drops her into a dip, kissing her long and hard and passionately like he could discover all the secrets of the world in her kiss. She is laughing now, too, tipping her head back to see the stars as he spins her in a circle like they’re children. They are untouchable, invincible, his arms are warm and his smile is warmer, they are safe here in this palace they’ve built on the roof. The fear, the pain, the turmoil of the last few weeks melts away, it’s entirely easy to forget while they’re here with each other, young and beautiful and blessedly together. At long last he sets her down, breaking their kiss long enough to look down at her and tuck some flyaway hairs into place. He is breathless, flushed, windblown, smiling so wide his cheeks must hurt, and she swears there are tears in her eyes. “Christine,” he says, his voice full of laughter. “Will you _please_ do me the honor of going to dinner with me?” 

“I will go anywhere with you,” she says, pulling his face down to hers again for a brief kiss. “You need only ask.” 

“Dinner, then,” he says, tucking his face into her neck. His cheeks are cold and his breath tickles her skin, but it is the most delightful sensation she’s ever felt. “And then, wherever the world may carry us. Anywhere, I don’t care, as long as you’re there.” 

“Yes,” she says, peppering his cheeks with kisses. He turns his head back so he can look at her; his hair is a mess, sticking up in the back from where her fingers have raked through it and his cheeks—flushed a delightful pink—are smudged with her lipstick. His lips are swollen, pink, smiling as he looks down at her with the happiest eyes she’s ever seen on anyone, fitting his hands on her waist like they were meant to be there. “Have you any _idea_ ,” she says, punctuating each word with a kiss, “how much I’ve wanted to do this? Why didn’t you _say_ something?” 

“I tried,” he laughs. “I’ve been trying for weeks! Only you’ve been so busy with rehearsal and all—” she silences him with another kiss, laughing still, she feels like she might never _stop_ laughing she’s so giddy at the prospect of loving Raoul like this, until he shakes his hand free of the ridiculous green cloak that is part of her costume so he can tangle it in her hair and suddenly she remembers the show, the opera, _Meg._  

“Raoul!” she gasps, breaking their embrace. His lips follow her, trying to press another kiss to hers, but she holds his face in her hands.  “I forgot—the show! I have to go, before they start to worry.” She gestures to her costume, laughing breathlessly again, and he is bent over laughing too. “Don’t go back to your box,” she says, pressing another peck to his lips. “Call your horses, have them at the stage door. Wait for me in the wings, we’ll leave as soon as I take my bows and change.” She lets go of his hands—immediately misses their warmth—and hurries towards the stairs.

“Christine!” he calls, and she turns back to look. He’s still standing in the center of the roof, fingers pressed to his lips and staring at her, struck dumb with the biggest smile on his face. 

“Yes?” she prompts him, suspecting that if she doesn’t, he will just stand there and stare at her all night. 

“I love you,” is all he says, only this time he says it slowly, like a revelation or a prayer. It lodges herself in her mind, her heart, a flower blossoming into a garden in an instant. 

In return she holds out her hand and he takes it, leading her to the door and helping her down the ladder. If anyone suspects anything when they emerge from the door that leads to the fire stairs, they don’t say anything. Not that it would matter, Christine thinks, grasping Raoul’s hand like a lifeline as they descend back into the chaos. Not that anything matters besides that hand in hers. 

 

* * *

 

He is a mastermind of every art. Had she realized this before, she would have thought harder, perhaps been more hesitant. She might have even asked for help. She would not have _not_ made her deal, but she would have seen this coming. 

Even that is a lie, though, because there was never a world in which she saw any of this coming. She had always known he had a bit of a wicked streak, and in part that had appealed to her. She had not minded when he’d chased the tenor away all those months ago. She had not minded so long as his anger was largely harmless, and never directed at her. Perhaps that makes her a bad person, perhaps that is why she allowed herself to be enticed in the first place, perhaps that’s why she followed him down that dark tunnel, that descent into wickedness. Or perhaps she is not a bad person, just stupid, and lonely, and he was there, and so she had trusted him blindly with her voice, with her life, with her soul. And all for what? 

The rest of the show is as good as can be. People have, miraculously, remained in their seats. Christine is sure that they will be receiving letters of apology, refunds, compensation in some form, and that Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin are absolutely losing their minds, but the show truly must go on, so go on it does. Christine’s voice does not waver, the audience adores her. She avoids looking at Box Five at all costs, ignores the fluttering feeling in her stomach that is not nerves about singing on this stage, but about something entirely different. She cannot shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come, but every time she meets Raoul’s eyes when she has a moment offstage between scenes, every time his hand brushes hers as Madame Claude changes her costume, she forgets. Forgets about the danger, forgets that not an hour ago a man had been hanging from the rafters, forgets about anything other than their skin touching and the prospect of dinner. 

So they make it to the end, to thunderous applause, and Christine can’t help but feel a little triumphant that she has received such a warm reception even on such a terrible night. She takes her second bow, beaming, thrilled that they’ve made it to curtain without anything else terrible happening, and feeling like perhaps the worst _is_ over. The audience is on their feet, clapping and cheering for her like she’s delivered them from evil. She smiles wider, takes another bow. _It is okay._ She is so swept up in the energy of the crowd and their applause and the thrill of having lived through this night and come out of it with _Raoul at her side_ that she does not hear the laughter, soft at first, but unmistakably there. It crescendos, building until it is louder than the applause, until it is punctured by a sharp scream, several sharp screams, and Christine’s own gasp as she realizes that she is so naïve to have thought her Angel would let her win this way. 

It’s funny, in a twisted, macabre sort of way, how poetic it all is. The chandelier had never caught her attention before; she’s worked at the opera house for almost four years, walked by it every day in that time, and never spared it a second thought. It had always been just a light fixture, permanent like the stage or the seats, something that simply _was_ just a part of the charm of the opera house. Now, as it plummets towards her, she cannot take her eyes off of it. It is a beautiful, lovely thing, she thinks, glass so delicate and shimmering it could almost be raindrops on a spiderweb, illuminated by the sunset colors of flickering candlelight. It’s got a sort of tragic irony to it. Something about spotlights, something about going out with a bang. It’s like something out of an opera, this tragic death, so soon after she has finally found the love of her life, finally won it all. A fool’s game, she thinks, she had been playing a fool’s game. He had promised her Raoul’s life, but not her own. She realizes, in the moment, that she had not been imagining things up on the rooftop; of course he had heard, he always hears, and now she will pay the price for her transgressions. He will claim her in death if he cannot have her in life, drag her to that terrible place by force. She wants to laugh. How cruel fate is. She finally has everything she’s ever wanted—she has sung on the opera stage, Raoul is courting her, her father must be so happy in heaven—and now she is going to have it taken away before she can truly enjoy it. At least she will see her father again, a small shining grace in the face of this brilliant death about to befall her. She does not know why she cannot move, only that she is horrified yet calm as she awaits her death, strangely transfixed by that laugher, echoing around the theatre. It is high and cold and cruel and directed at her, entirely unfamiliar in its intent. _How unfair,_ she thinks, _that the last thing I will ever hear is that laughter._  

It is not, though, because Raoul is a gallant fool. She thinks she hears his voice, isn’t honestly sure, but suddenly he’s tackling her out of the way and they both go crashing to the stage. The fall knocks the wind out of her and he lands on top of her, shielding her body with his own as the chandelier explodes upon the ground with the sort of brilliance that will be talked about for ages to come. Destruction is such a pretty thing. There is screaming, and there is blood, there is glass everywhere. It looks like a painting. There is an almighty crash. It sounds like a symphony, the way the glass shatters. There is confusion, people shouting their names, and she dimly thinks _Raoul, are you okay?_ but he must be because _someone_ is picking her up off the ground, forcing her off the stage and pulling her through the madness, hurrying her off the stage. 

“Come on, Christine,” she hears someone urging in her ear, but her legs feel like they’re going to give way. People are still screaming, people are still running, and somewhere above it all she is still hearing that cruel laughter, ringing inside her head. 

When she wakes, daylight is shining through the crack in the curtains. The room is dark except for this sliver of daylight, the curtains are made of heavy brocade that blocks the light and the sounds of Paris outside. Christine closes her eyes, leaning back into the bed—the incredibly soft bed—with a groan. When she opens them again she is still in this bed in the room with the heavy brocade curtains which, she realizes, is the bedroom in her suite at _La Parisienne._ She blinks and sits up, taking stock of her aching body— _Why_ is her body always aching when she finds herself here?—and the rest of her surroundings. She is the only person in the room, which looks much the same as she left it, only cleaner, but there is a dressing gown draped on the chair next to her bed, and a glass of water on the night table. There is a book on the chair, too— _Les Misérables,_ how fitting—lying open as if someone had just left. She can hear quiet voices on the other side of the door, they sound like men, having a heated argument in the kitchen. 

Memories come flooding back, as they often do, and she remembers the night before. The note, _Il Muto,_ Carlotta’s voice, Buquet, the rooftop, Raoul’s declaration of love, the curtain call, _the chandelier._ Raoul, saving her life. Her Angel, wicked puppeteer above it all, maestro of tragedy. Christine throws herself out of bed, tripping over the pile of blankets, and rushes out of her bedroom, causing the group of men in the living room to start. There are five men sitting around the dining table, and all of them stand suddenly when she bursts into the room. 

“Raoul!” she cries, so relieved that he is among them, looking exhausted and a little worse for wear, but there. He is not wearing a shirt, but bandages wind around his torso and his right arm is in a sling. There is a small cut on his left cheek, but he still smiles when he sees her, broad and beautiful and laced with concern. 

“Christine,” he says, hurrying from the table and into her arms. “Did we wake you?” 

“You’re alive,” she says, scarcely daring to believe it. 

“I’m alive,” he assures her, holding her close. 

“You’re hurt,” she pulls away to look at him, turning his head and lightly touching the scratch on his cheek, the bandages on his stomach. “Your arm—” 

“It’s nothing serious,” he says. “Are you alright? You fell asleep in the carriage, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to take the time to get your clothes, I just wanted to get out of there.” 

She realizes that she is indeed not wearing her nightgown or even sleep clothes at all, but a long shirt that doesn’t even reach her knees, leaving her bare legs on display. It must be Raoul’s—explains why he’s shirtless—and she blushes when she sees all the men at the table have averted their eyes. Raoul steps into the bedroom and returns with a soft, blue dressing gown—also his, she suspects, because it is far too large on her and she has to roll the sleeves three times to be able to use her hands—and drapes it over her shoulders. He presses a kiss to her lips and she returns it, still faintly thinking this might all be a dream, that there is no way he is standing here before her—hurt, but alive—after the previous night’s tragedies. 

Someone at the table clears their throat and Raoul pulls away, glaring at them and wrapping an arm around Christine’s waist. She sees now that Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin are both here, as well as a police officer, and a man she’s never met but who looks vaguely familiar. 

“Gentlemen,” he says, in a tone that indicates the matter is not up for debate, “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. This conversation can take place at a later date, when Miss Daaé is ready.” 

There is a roar of protest from the table. Monsieur Firmin slams his hand on the wood. “This is serious, Monsieur le Vicomte!” he snaps. “We haven’t the time to discuss this at our leisure!”

“Discuss what?” Christine says. 

“Well, it may have escaped your notice, but somebody dropped a chandelier from the ceiling last night,” he says, sardonically. “And your little boyfriend won’t tell us anything he knows! Perhaps _you_ could shed some light on your tryst with the Ghost, Miss Daaé?”

“Don’t speak to her like that!” Raoul snaps at the same time as Christine says, “What are you insinuating?” 

“Forgive Richard,” Monsieur André says, standing and putting a hand on Monsieur Firmin’s shoulder. “He has been rather upset by all this—we all are. Miss Daaé,” he says, extending a hand to her and leading her to Raoul’s empty chair at the table. “We are most sorry for intruding upon you this morning, but we are hoping that you might be willing to answer a few questions about the Opera Ghost, or, as you seem to know him, the Angel of Music.” 

Christine shakes her head. This is the _last_ thing she wants to think about. She does not want to think about how the managers know of her Angel's double identity. She does not want to think about how he killed a man—tried to kill _her_ —does not want to think about the tremendous pain he has caused or the tremendous pain _she_ has caused him. It is, of course, her fault. This Ghost nonsense has long been her fault, she supposes, he has been toying with them all for her sake for years, now. Only now this game of life and death finally has a winner and a loser, and Christine knows where she falls. She does not know if she can say exactly that her Angel has abandoned her, but he has certainly changed the rules. It is hard to be angry when she knows exactly her betrayal. It is a bitter realization, that this is all utterly her fault, but curiously, she tastes salt on her lips. 

“Who is the Phantom of the Opera, Miss Daaé?” the police officer asks. “And how do you know him?” 

“I– I don’t,” she stammers. “I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is.” 

“Do you not admit to having relations with a certain individual going by the name of Angel of Music, who has been torturing us to curry favor for you for the past three months? Perhaps using your position to gain a lead role, and, when that did not happen, asking him to kill our master of the flies and then drop a chandelier upon the stage?” Monsieur Firmin snarls. 

“No!” Christine cries. “I never asked him to do that!” 

“So you admit that you _do_ know this man?” 

“I didn’t say that!” 

“Richard,” Monsieur André mutters. “Perhaps this is not the best tactic—” 

“Oh come now, Giles,” Monsieur Firmin says sardonically, “the girl obviously had something to do with this!” 

“I did _not,_ you imbecile!” Christine shouts. Angry tears are warm in the corners of her eyes—how could they possible think that she had a hand in this disaster? That she had wanted Buquet dead, had wanted the chandelier to fall? “He tried to kill me! Or have you forgotten that I was nearly flattened by a falling light fixture?” 

“And fortunate enough to have survived, by some stroke of fate, it would seem!” 

“A stroke of fate for which,” Monsieur André says, faintly, “we are incredibly thankful.” 

But she is not listening, she is angry, terrified, and continues speaking. “This only happened because _you_ fools ignored his note! We all warned you that the opera belongs to him, and yet you still went along pretending as if this is some sort of child’s game! And now a man is dead, and Raoul and I nearly killed!”

“Aha!” Monsieur Firmin says, as if triumphant. “How do you know about the note, if in fact _you_ were not the one who wrote it?” 

Christine’s mouth is hanging open. “You cannot actually be saying what I think you are saying,” she says, flatly. 

“Miss Daaé,” the police officer says, “nobody is accusing you of anything. Monsieur Firmin has simply gotten a little carried away—” 

“Like hell I have!” Firmin shouts, “She’s hiding something, and I want to know what it is!” 

“You think _I’m_ the Opera Ghost,” Christine says, faintly, disbelieving laughter bubbling in her throat. “You cannot be serious. Are you really as stupid as you look?” 

“He’s not,” Monsieur André says, firmly. “Er, serious, that is. We think no such thing. We are only trying to understand this unfortunate set of circumstances.” 

“In which,” Monsieur Firmin growls, “you seem to have a starring role.” 

“Enough,” Raoul says, his good hand coming to rest on her shoulder. His voice is low and angry like she has never heard it before. “I will not permit you to accuse her like this, nor will I allow this interrogation to carry on!” 

“Monsieur le Vicomte, that is not your decision to make!” 

“She’s in her dressing gown!” he hisses. “She’s exhausted! She had a chandelier dropped on her last night, for fuck’s sake! Let her rest!” 

“Yes,” says the officer, “I think it best that we all continue this under different circumstances.” 

Monsieur Firmin stands, though this does not make a great difference in his height, and comes face to face with Raoul. Christine supposes he might be rather threatening, if not for the fact that Raoul is a good head and a half taller than him, and looks angrier than she’s ever seen him. 

“I don’t know why you’re protecting her,” Firmin snarls, “when you are obviously not the only powerful man she has slept with in order to advance her own career.” 

Raoul is right handed, but is clearly not incapable of throwing a punch with his left. His fist collides with Monsieur Firmin’s face before Christine has a chance to do anything more than gasp. The unknown man leaps across the room and seizes Raoul around the middle before he can do anything else, and the police officer and Monsieur André haul Monsieur Firmin up from the ground. His nose is bleeding all over his waistcoat and he is blinking dazedly. Christine's mouth is open in shock, but she cannot say that Monsieur Firmin did not have it coming. She might have done it herself, had Raoul not gotten there first.

“Perhaps we should go,” Monsieur André says, after a moment of stunned disbelief. 

“Perhaps,” Raoul says, sarcastically. 

“Miss Daaé,” the police officer says, “for what it is worth, my wife and I greatly enjoyed your performance as Elissa. A true triumph.” Christine nods, blinking stupidly as he leads Monsieur Firmin out the door. 

“You must forgive him,” Monsieur André says, addressing the three remaining in the room. “He has been very upset by this whole thing. Miss Daaé,” he says, extending a hand and a smile to Christine. “Though the future of the Opera Populaire is uncertain at this moment, I am sure that you shall be a part of it. We will be in touch. Messieurs.” He clears his throat and retracts his hand after an awkward moment, in which Christine just stares at it but does not take it, and nods to Raoul and the other man, then leaves. 

There is a tense silence until they hear the lift clatter down the hall, signaling the departure of the three men. Christine is shaking in anger, hands balled into fists as she stares at the closed door. Raoul sinks into the chair beside her and closes his eyes. 

“That was foolish,” the other man remarks, gathering a bundle of ice in a hand towel and placing it on the table for Raoul. “Now both of your arms are useless.” 

“Raoul,” Christine says, softly, taking his left hand. The knuckles are red, and she’s sure that they will be bruise in a few hours. She presses a kiss to them, then holds the ice against his skin. “Are you all right?”

Raoul laughs softly, meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, Christine,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

“A fit of rage, it would seem,” says the other man, drily. “Forgive my lack of formal introduction, Miss Daaé,” he says, taking the seat on her other side and extending his hand. She accepts it and he presses a kiss to her knuckles. “It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh at last. I am a fan of your work on stage, though I must say, I find your choice in suitors rather questionable.” He glares at Raoul, but there is no real heat behind either his words or his glance. “Monsieur le Comte de Chagny, though, of course, you may call me Philippe.” 

 _Oh,_ she thinks, _Raoul’s brother._ That explains the vague familiarity—they have the same eyebrows, the same cheekbones, the same chiseled jaw, though on Philippe these are the features of a grown man, whereas on Raoul they have not entirely lost the softness of youth. Philippe’s eyes are brown, instead of Raoul’s startling blue, but the two have the same curly, sandy hair, though Philippe’s is combed and lacks the constant unruliness of Raoul’s. They share a nose, but Raoul’s has a smattering of freckles across the bridge that are only visible when she is close enough to kiss him. The Comte is handsome, and Christine suspects that ten years ago he was probably the spitting image of Raoul. 

“How do you do?” she murmurs. 

“Well, considering the circumstances,” Philippe says, with a small smile. “And yourself?” 

“Well, considering the circumstances,” she replies with a disbelieving laugh.

“Well, I’m simply fantastic,” Raoul says. “Never better.” 

Christine laughs, removes the ice to press another kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you for defending my honor,” she says. “What would I do without you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Raoul says, “You seem to have been doing just fine on your own. ‘Are you really as stupid as you look?’ Honestly.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve never needed a protector, Little Lotte.” 

“No,” she says, “You’re quite right about that. But how fortunate I am to have someone who cares for me enough to be one.” 

“Always,” he murmurs, gazing at her. 

She’s just thinking that she might like to close the distance between them and kiss him, kiss all his hurts to let him know she _sees_ him, how thankful she is that he has found her, that he saved her _life,_ but Philippe clears his throat, and they both turn to look at him.

“Yes,” he says, awkwardly. “There is another matter to discuss, I believe.”

“Philippe,” Raoul begins, his tone a warning, but Christine silences him with her hand.

“Which is?” she asks.

“The matter of your courtship,” Philippe says. “Under normal circumstances, you would certainly not be allowed to proceed the way you two have been carrying on—”

“But I hardly think these qualify as conventional circumstances, brother,” Raoul interrupts.

Philippe sighs. “No, I think not.” He rubs his brow, and Christine gives Raoul’s hand a gentle squeeze to signal him to _shut up._ He hisses in pain and she gives him an apologetic look, replacing the ice. “My brother is annoyingly stubborn, I think you will find, Miss Daaé,” Philippe says.

“Like you weren’t too—”

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” Christine says, smiling, resting a hand on Raoul’s shoulder to silence him.

“Yes,” says Philippe, “and he is absolutely determined, I think, to pursue this relationship.”

“I am!”

“Would you stop interrupting?” Philippe says, with fond exasperation. “I _know._ I’ve been listening to you wallow in self-pity for two months. I understand that you love Miss Daaé, Raoul. Now, if you cannot manage to sit quietly and let the two of us carry a conversation like adults, I must insist that you excuse yourself until we are quite finished.” Christine almost snickers as Raoul sits back in his chair with a huff, but gives Philippe a half nod to continue. “ _As I was saying._ Under normal circumstances, you two would hardly be allowed to continue. However, as Raoul has already reminded us,” he looks at his brother, “these are not normal circumstances. It is my understanding, Miss Daaé, and do correct me if I am wrong, that your parents are no longer with us, and you were under the guardianship of one Madame Giry of the opera house, prior to your coming of age last year?”

“That is correct,” Christine says.

“Right,” Philippe nods. “Well, seeing as my own parents have also passed and left me as the head of this family, it falls to my responsibility to oversee this courtship. I will, of course, be happy to do this. If I may be frank,” he leans conspiratorially towards Christine, “I have never seen Raoul so smitten. He’s been like a lovesick puppy for weeks.”

“I have not!”

“Raoul, did I not ask you to stop interrupting?”

Christine actually does laugh this time, and leans over to give Raoul a placating kiss on the cheek.

“I only want to ask, Christine,” Philippe says, turning serious now. “Whether you are certain that this is what you want. The pressures of aristocracy are no small matter. We will, of course, be there to help you, but Raoul cannot punch every person who makes a snide comment about your status.”

“I understand,” Christine says. “This is what I want.” And it is _._ She knows that the path may not be easy, but this can hardly be worse than what she has endured at the hands of the Phantom, and even if it is, it does not matter. She will face any number of obstacles if it means she can continue to have Raoul at her side for the rest of her life.

Philippe scrutinizes her for a long moment before he finally nods. “Very well, I see no reason that this can’t carry on, with appropriate attention to decorum, of course.” Raoul lets out a breath that she didn’t know he had been holding. Philippe laughs. “Were you nervous, little brother?” he teases.

“Well, you’ve been dragging me through the mud this entire conversation.”

“And yet, to my great surprise, you seem to have found a lovely young lady who appreciates you for all your unusual charms.”

“Unusual charms! What is that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry,” Christine interrupts, “but I must ask—appropriate attention to decorum?” She knows what a courtship entails, she is not  _that_ naïve, but she and Raoul are hardly a conventional couple. They have broken so many rules already, surely they cannot be expected to begin obeying them now.

“Yes,” Philippe says, “I am afraid that Raoul cannot take up residence with you in _La Parisienne_ again _._ ”

“Why not?” Raoul demands.

Philippe rolls his eyes. “Because you’ve been courting her all of a day, Raoul. You shouldn’t even be _visiting_ Miss Daaé unsupervised.”

“But surely you aren’t going to enforce that,” Raoul says.

“I most certainly will be.”

“ _What?_ But why?”

“Because you _will_ be following the rules for the duration of your courtship and, provided that Miss Daaé has not come to her senses and kicked your belligerent butt to the curb by then, your engagement.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Raoul protests. “We’ve been getting along just fine until now!”

“Raoul, be reasonable,” Philippe says. “The two of you are under enough scrutiny as it is, given Christine’s familial status and this business with the Opera Ghost. Do you really think it wise to give Paris any more reason to judge her than they already have?”

Raoul falls silent, and Christine lays a hand on his cheek, turning his head to look at her. “Raoul,” she whispers, “it’s all right. Your brother is right, we’ll observe the proper rules for the time being, and then we will have the rest of our lives together.”

Raoul harrumphs, but his scowl softens as he looks at her. “Yes, I suppose” he murmurs, though he doesn’t look happy about it. “How did I find someone so smart?” He nudges his nose against hers and she laughs, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “Philippe,” Raoul mumbles, barely breaking their kiss. “Might we have a moment alone?”

“I do not foresee myself winning this battle,” Philippe sighs. “A moment. I will be in the salon in the lobby, where I expect to see you _both,_ dressed and ready for lunch, in no more than half an hour. Christine,” he holds out his hand and she takes it, smiling and rising to her feet, though Raoul is making the whole thing rather difficult by wrapping his good arm around her waist and trying to keep her in her seat.

Philippe sees himself out and Christine finally allows herself to turn and give Raoul her full attention.

“You’re impossible,” she says, but gets no farther before his lips are on hers, warm and sweet and reassuring, and her hands find his shoulders, pulling him closer. His skin is warm beneath her fingers and suddenly she remembers the strangeness of the whole situation—she in his nightclothes, he shirtless and bandaged, sitting at the kitchen table in an expensive hotel room, this is the beginning of their courtship—and she frowns.

“I learned from the best,” he says, pressing another kiss to her lips, then frowning himself. “You know, Christine, it’s not exactly reassuring when you frown when I kiss you.”

“Raoul,” she says, seriously, “I’m so sorry for this mess.”

“What mess?”

She laughs, but it’s a hollow laugh. “Someone dropped a chandelier on us last night. Raoul, you nearly _died_ saving my life.”

“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat, if I had to,” he says.

She sighs, rests her forehead against his shoulder. Suddenly she is very weary, and the weight of everything presses down upon her back. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she mumbles against his collarbone.

“Next time you’d like me to let you be crushed by a falling chandelier? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Well, I can assure you that I don’t find great pleasure in _being_ hurt, either.”

She knows he intends it as a joke but it breaks Christine’s heart and a sob finds its way out her throat. What is this mess she has found herself in? She cannot imagine her father ever intended this, when he sent her the Angel of Music. Though, now she knows that her Angel is a man, and a wicked one at that, she is not so sure that her father even had a hand in this. She pushes these thoughts aside in favor of turning to Raoul, who is trying his best to rub her back soothingly with his good arm.

“Stop,” she murmurs, “you need to put the ice back on your hand.” He obliges, offering his hand to her and letting her hold the ice to his skin. “What are all the bandages covering?” she asks, fearing the worst.

“It’s nothing serious,” he replies. “Cuts from the glass, some of the larger pieces tore my clothes. My injuries are not life threatening,” he assures her.

“And your arm?”

“My arm will heal.”

“Is it broken?”

“A little bit,” he shrugs. Christine chokes out another sob and drops the ice bundle, putting her head in her hands.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she says. “Fuck, Raoul, I’m so fucking sorry that I ever got us into this mess, I’m so fucking sorry you got caught up in this, I’m just so fucking _sorry_ for everything. You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Hey,” Raoul says, turning her head to face him. “Hey, hey, hey. None of that, come now.” He swipes his thumb across her cheeks, wiping away the tears that have fallen, and presses kisses in their wake. “You are not to blame,” he says, seriously, “Christine, Christine, look at me. _I do not blame you for any of this._ ” She nods, but can’t seem to totally believe him. He sees this—he always sees her—and pulls her out of her chair and over to the sofa, where he can settle her closer to him. “I love you,” he says. “And I will not stop loving you.”

“Did you know it would be this much work?” she asks, voice choked.

He laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of her head and smoothing his bruised hand over her hair. “Loving you is not work,” he says. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Loving you is the greatest and easiest thing I will ever do.”

“Even if it almost got you killed?”

“A small price to pay,” he murmurs.

“Not to me,” she says. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says. “Loving you would be much less fun if you weren’t around.”

She laughs again, a little more genuinely this time, and leans into his touch. He settles them back on the couch, her head tucked under his chin and his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. He keeps whispering things, telling her how much he loves her and talking about the weather, the shoes he saw in the shops the other day, a new restaurant he wants to try for dinner sometime, anything but the opera and the terrible events of the day before. He promises her walks around the Trocadero and lunch in the lawn by the Eiffel Tower, trips to the Louvre and the Notre Dame, a weekend away at Perros-Guirec and tea at his absolute favorite little café along the Seine.

“We’ll visit Meg,” he says, “she’ll be wanting to see you. We’ll enjoy the summer. Can you believe it’s already summer? Paris is quite lovely in the summer, I think, but if it gets too hot we’ll go to the coast and look for seashells on the beach and ride horses through the garden. We’ll get to know each other, yes? I want to know everything you want to tell me, Christine.” He presses a kiss to her hair, rests his cheek against her head. “And,” he adds, a little hesitantly, “I know that I have not been very understanding previously, but if you decide you want to talk about this– this Angel of Music, then I am ready to listen. That is all I will say on the matter, I won’t press or ask any more questions. Only know that I am here, and I will do whatever I can to help you put this matter behind.”

They sit in silence for a minute before Christine tilts her head back to look at him. He’s gazing down at her with such tenderness it makes her heart ache—How can this possibly only be their beginning, when he’s already become so essential to her?—and she reaches up a hand to stroke his cheek. He catches her wrist, turns his head to kiss her palm, closes his eyes and holds it there for a moment before letting it go.

“I’m not ready yet,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to be,” he whispers back. “I’ll wait as long as you need. Forever.”

She sighs, closes her eyes, rests her head against Raoul’s chest again. _Will forever be long enough?_ It’s terrible, she knows, to be thinking of her Angel—the Phantom—when she is here, in this brightly lit hotel room, in Raoul’s comforting embrace, in another world entirely, but she cannot stop her thoughts from drifting. Did he hear last night? He must have, for why else would he drop a chandelier on her? Is he hurt? Does he miss her? Does he long for her the way her soul seems to crave him, subconsciously and unwillingly, bound together by some strange and sinister secret?

“Are you tired?” comes Raoul’s voice. He is not oblivious to her thoughts, she knows this because she feels his arms tighten around her. It is not so bad a thing, she reminds herself, only that being vulnerable is a dangerous game. She has learned this well, and though Raoul—beautiful, sweet, good-hearted Raoul—would never hurt her, she had once thought that of her Angel too.

“I’m so tired,” she says, runs a hand through his hair. It’s a mess, she sees now that there are shadows under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders. He looks as tired as she feels.

“We don’t have to go to lunch,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll tell Philippe—”

“No!” Christine says. Wandering though her thoughts may be, always drifting back to the Phantom, she is determined to prove to Philippe that she is a worthy match for his brother. She will not let him think he has made a mistake in allowing Raoul to pursue someone so far below his own station. “We’ll go.”

“Are you sure?” Raoul is looking at her with concern. “It’s really not a problem if you don’t want to. We can stay here, Philippe can sit in the kitchen and I will stay by your side while you sleep.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. The offer is enticing, but she does not want to Raoul that she is not sure she will ever sleep again, no matter how tired she is. Even when she blinks she hears that cruel laughter, sees the chandelier hurtling towards them; and still she sees that face, though her Angel had not shown himself since that night, emerging from the darkness. The eyes seem to find her, even so far from the opera house. She thinks some daylight, some fresh air may do her good. It has been a long time since she has been out, since their last stay at _La Parisienne,_ and the promise of summertime has her thinking longingly of the outside world. Suddenly, though, she remembers that she is sitting in Raoul’s nightclothes, and laughs. “Raoul,” she says, “I haven’t got any of my clothes. I can’t well go to lunch wearing this.”

“You mean my old nightshirt isn’t good enough for you?” he jokes, running his hand through her hair. “I took the courtesy of having Philippe bring over some of his wife’s old dresses. They won’t fit perfectly, I’m afraid she is rather taller than you, but I think they’ll do until we can get you to a tailor, or at the very least get your things from Madame Giry.”

The Comtesse de Chagny has impeccable taste, and the wardrobe features a number of dresses with terribly complex trains and bows and corsets that make Christine’s ribs ache just looking at him—she has not recovered from Serafimo’s costume just yet—and though they are two or three seasons out of style, they are still more than Christine has ever dreamed of owning. But she is an opera star, and none of this is unfamiliar. If there is one realm of this new world that _doesn’t_ entirely terrify her, it is this one. As she dons the simplest dress she can find—pretty yellow, with a jacket and only a small bustle, mercifully devoid of a corset—for their lunch and combs her hair, which Raoul has made a mess with his wandering fingers, into a simple chignon, she cannot help but admire the effect. Though Raoul is right and it is far too big on her, the dress is finer fabric than many of her costumes, and it is pretty nonetheless. Christine catches sight of herself in the mirror and stops to fix her sleeve when suddenly her heart catches, stutters several beats, her mouth goes dry. For a moment the room seems to go dark, and she sees a masked face leering at her from the other side of the glass, but then she shakes her head and the moment is over. This mirror doesn’t even look like the one in her dressing room, it is not set into the wall but leaning against it at an angle, and the frame is simple, and black. Still, Christine runs her hand over the back of it to be sure, and only when she is certain that she had imagined the face does she hurry back to the living room, where Raoul is still lying on the couch, shirtless and gazing at her with a smile.

“I have seen my sister in law wear that dress so many times,” he states, and Christine makes a face at him. “We must get you to a tailor today, because all I can think of right now is Caroline. And, between you and me, I am rather terrified of her.”

“I’m rather terrifying,” Christine says, putting her hands on her hips and pursing her lips. Raoul laughs, and things feel normal, if only for a moment.

“You are,” he agrees. “Far too terrifying for your own good. I don’t suppose you could help me dress?” He holds out his shirt and she takes it from him.

“A rather intimate act for two who have barely entered their courtship, don’t you think?” she teases, and he rolls his eyes.

“That is, by far, the stupidest rule I’ve ever heard,” he declares.

“Yes, yes,” Christine hums, untying the sling that is supporting his arm. “Oh, Raoul,” she sighs, inspecting the skin. It is bruised something terrible but he shrugs again.

“I’ve seen worse,” he shrugs.

“I hate to imagine what that looked like,” she says.

“I have the scars to prove it.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll show you them, someday, Little Lotte,” he steals a kiss and she swats at him. Trying to get him to dress is like trying to get Meg’s stray cat friends to sit in her lap. “When we are no longer just beginning our courtship,” he whispers, kissing just below her ear.

“You are impossible,” Christine laughs, but she can feel a blush climbing her neck. Raoul looks thoroughly too pleased with himself. “If you’re not careful, Philippe will never let us have a moment alone again.”

“I have never been in the habit of listening to my older brother.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says. “‘Annoyingly stubborn,’ I think, were the words he used.”

“Say you love me,” he says, suddenly, and it makes Christine’s heart burst, that he wants so badly to hear those words from her lips. He is looking at her with those beautiful blue eyes while she buttons his shirt, and she smiles widely. She will never not oblige him this.

“I love you,” she says, and his smile grows.

If that face, that terrible, twisted face, seems to stare at her from every stranger on the street in a black suit, from beyond the windows at lunch, from the mirror in the tailor, she does her best to keep a steady smile on her face and ignore the stuttering of her heart. There is no way, she tells herself. He is not here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in an alternate universe meg and raoul and christine are a loving thruple

Of all the strange and stranger and strangest things that have made up Christine’s life of late, by far the strangest is this happiness. Privately, she thinks that that is rather sad, that she has become so unaccustomed to being happy that it feels like a privilege, like she’s living someone else’s life, but it’s hard to be melancholy for too long in the joy of these days. Summer slips by with the lazy drawl unique to a late June breeze, drifting through the open windows of her suite in _La Parisienne_ and making the curtains flutter. The sun stains her skin with its warmth, she is not so frightfully pale as she had become during those days when she never left the opera house, and she begins to gain back some of the weight lost while she was under her Angel’s thrall. He is not gone, entirely, she sees his face sometimes in the bedroom mirror and he haunts her dreams with insistence, but she does not think he is here. He exists only within her mind, now, a formidable presence, certainly, but one which seems to pose no immediate physical threat. With each passing day it is easier and easier to let her waking thoughts of him fade away, lurk in the shadows, and there are so few shadows in this life with Raoul.

They do all the things he promised. They go on strolls through the market, her hand looped through his left arm while he nods to the sellers and inspects cartons of fresh fruit, filling the basket she carries with food for her suite. He is so friendly, seems to know everyone by name, always asks the old women about their grandchildren and is always willing to sit for a game of cards with the old men in the park or race boats with the children in the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg while Christine strolls along the paths, watching the ducks and the families and the bees and marveling at the change in her life. 

The summer is not dreadfully hot, but it is warm enough in July that they escape to the seaside for a few days. There, the wind is always blowing and the waves crash along the shoreline in a constant rhythm that lulls Christine into a comfortable, half-asleep-half-awake existence, but a pleasant, dreamlike happiness, rather than the hazy fog she lived in under her Angel’s thrall. She drifts through a haze of memories, walking along the town streets and stopping at cafés she used to frequent with her father. His memory is more palpable here than it is anywhere else, even his grave, perhaps because of all the happiness they shared in this little seaside town. As she and Raoul make pilgrimage to all their favorite childhood haunts it is easy to forget that Papa Daaé is not waiting for them at home on the porch, violin in hand and serenading the songbirds in the trees. 

This ocean of memories is initially terrible, and Raoul offers to bring her back to Paris the second they arrive, but as she sifts through them she finds that grief is a fickle thing. She had thought she did her grieving at the funeral, wept and wore black and then boxed up everything she ever had of him and put it away on a mental shelf where not even she could reach it again. It becomes apparent to her that she did not do enough of it in the immediate months following his death, nor even in the years. She ached for him, longed for him to fill that void, refused to allow herself the happiness of remembering him as he had been, quashed the grief beneath a tide of anger and loneliness. And all she had gotten from it was her Angel, a confusing crossroads of friend and father, blurring the lines between his real life and a make-believe. Christine is not sure whether she was the one to conflate the two or her Angel deliberately did this, is still unsure where she stands in this odd threesome of spirits, but she lets the thoughts roll through her mind at will. 

So she begins the hard work of remembering, far from the darkness of the chapel and the crowds of Paris, out on the cobblestones of Perros-Guirec. They buy strawberries from the market and Raoul helps her make one million pies until they get his recipe just right, and then they sit and eat it in the garden on the bench by the daisies Gustave Daaé had loved so. At night they sit by the fireplace, even though it is too warm to light, and tell stories to Caroline and Philippe’s children—though never stories about the Angel of Music, he is notably absent. They go walking along the beach, finding little stones and pieces of glass he would have delighted in, and a rogue wave soaks them both to their knees, making Raoul weep with laughter as he recalls plunging into the waves after her scarf all those years ago. 

It has been so long since Christine has felt genuinely happy in her life, like she is not missing anything, even with her father gone. Sometimes they make her sad, remind her how much she loved—loves—him, but these memories she has of him are beautiful and they are enough to fill that aching void with something living, warm, and bright. They do not tear at it the same way her Angel did, a constant nagging question of whether her father was really dead. They assure her that he is and he is not, he lives in her every breath the way she lived in his, he is a presence that can still exist in her life even if he cannot hold her hand the way he once did. He is not one or the other, dead or alive, he is a memory, and grief is not a terrible thing to feel, and she cherishes that revelation even after they make their way back to Paris. 

They often visit Meg, who has been staying, along with Madame Giry, at her grandmother’s during the temporary closure of the opera house. She is grateful for the company and the excuse to leave the stuffy house and her grandmother’s angry little dog—who Meg swears has it out for her—and regularly joins Christine and Raoul at tea or walks along the Seine. On these occasions Philippe consents to stay home, claiming that he is too old to keep up with young folk. Raoul teases him endlessly about this, reminding him that thirty is hardly _old,_ but Christine knows that he secretly enjoys these more relaxed outings, and that he does not regard Meg so much as a chaperone but a friend. Besides, of anyone, Meg has been the happiest about their blossoming relationship, declaring that she knew it all along and that she cannot wait until they have little curly-haired, blue-eyed babies that she can godmother. 

“The lovebirds,” she croons when they come calling sometime in August. Christine’s hand is intertwined with Raoul’s—rather more intimate than taking his arm, she supposes, but who is keeping track—and a blush rises to her cheeks at Meg’s declaration. Meg loves to draw attention to Christine and Raoul whenever she can. She is like a proud sister, and Christine won’t begrudge her that too much, but she _is_ rather reluctant to parade her and Raoul’s relationship in front of Madame Giry. She has not quite forgotten the way Madame Giry always seemed to know more than she let on, when it came to matters of the Phantom. While outwardly Madame Giry has expressed her happiness for them, Christine cannot help but wonder if she is leaving something unsaid. Meg does not share her reservations, though, and shouts for her mother, “ _Maman!_ Christine and the Vicomte are here! And they’re holding _hands_!” 

“Meg,” Christine chastises. “You are—” 

“Meg,” Raoul says, smiling and stopping whatever insult Christine had been about to say at her lips, “you are a delight.” Christine can’t be mad, Raoul loves any excuse to show the world how much he loves her, and his openness warms her heart.

Madame Giry gives them an approving nod, as she always does, though Christine thinks she detects a note of caution in the gaze they share. Raoul disappears with Madame Giry into the kitchen for several minutes, where Christine can hear them discussing in low tones the opera house and the Managers, whom Raoul has resolutely refused to see. She and Meg share a look before they both inch closer to the door, careful not to be seen but straining to hear anything from their argument. Christine catches her name, something about the Ghost, and Raoul’s quick burst of anger before he comes back into the drawing room, looking ruffled. Christine and Meg spring away from the door, hurriedly taking their seats on the sofa as if they’ve been there the entire time, and adopt matching expressions of innocence. Raoul is clearly not fooled, as he levels them both with an exasperated gaze and then makes a gesture with his hand that says _don’t ask,_ as Madame Giry appears in the doorway, looking thunderous. 

“Well,” Raoul says, with a valiant effort at nonchalance in front of Madame Giry, “we ought to be going, the carriage is waiting. Christine, Meg?” He offers his arm to Christine, who rises and takes it with a significant look at him that says _you’re not getting off that easy,_ and he pats her hand to tell her _I know,_ and his other—good as new, according to the doctor, though Christine knows it still twinges him—to Meg, who stares openly between him and her mother as they leave. 

“What was that about?” Christine demands, the second the carriage closes behind them. Raoul slumps back in his seat, avoiding the gazes of both Christine and Meg. 

“Nothing,” he says. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“Bullshit,” Christine says. 

“Is it about the Ghost?” Meg asks. “Has he finally surfaced?” 

“‘Finally surfaced?’” Christine asks. “What do you mean, surely he hasn’t been quiet all this time?” 

“Wouldn’t you be, if you had caused such a disaster?” Meg says. 

“It seems we haven’t had a word at all since that night,” Raoul says. “Though your mother, Meg, still insists that this matter has not been put to rest.” Privately, Christine thinks Madame Giry is quite right. She finds it hard to believe that her Angel has gone so suddenly silent—he has never been the type to quietly revel in his victories, and this seems like the greatest victory of all.                        

“Well,” Christine says, slowly, “I suppose there aren’t many people to harass, what with the opera house being empty and all.” 

“That’s the thing, though, Christine,” Raoul says, “it _isn’t_ empty. Though the Managers and I thought it best that nobody stayed in residence, given recent events, it has been full of workmen every day replacing the stage and installing the new chandelier. And, to my knowledge, Madame Claude has been using this time to reorganize and inventory the costumes and props, with all her team. It’s been far from empty, but there hasn’t been a single oddity reported.” 

“They’re putting in a new chandelier?” Christine asks, incredulous. 

Raoul scoffs. “That’s what I said. Bad luck, wouldn’t you think? But alas, Monsieur Firmin insisted, said that it’s part of the ambience of the place. I wrote quite a hefty cheque for it just last week.” 

“Monsieur Firmin is a fool,” Meg says.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Raoul agrees. 

“I heard you broke his nose when you decked him.”

“First of all, his nose looked like that long before I got a hold of him. Second of all, I did not _‘deck him,’_ I–” 

“Sorry,” Christine interrupts, unable to let the matter go, “but the chandelier–” 

“Will be perfectly secure,” Raoul says, reading her mind. “I will check the fastenings myself.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Christine says hurriedly. “You’ll fall and break your neck.” Correction: Someone will _push_ him, and he’ll fall and break his neck. “Besides, we both know that improperly secured fastenings were not the problem.” 

“Besides, what do you know about chandelier fastenings?” Meg snorts. 

“I’ll have you know, Meg, that I am a man of many talents,” Raoul says, with dignity. 

“Oh?” Meg laughs. “And what sorts of talents might those be, telling the salad fork from the regular fork?” 

“A very important skill, first of all,” Raoul says, “and second of all, I think it none of your business!”

“None of my business? Then I _must_ make it my business! Christine, what talents is Monsieur le Vicomte so unwilling to share with us?” 

“Don’t answer her, Christine,” Raoul says. 

“What?” Christine says. She had lost track of the conversation, wandering back to her Angel in those darkest passages of her mind once more, wondering what he was thinking, doing, planning. She cannot imagine this is over. She cannot imagine that he will let her walk free so easily. She fancies she knows him too well for that, or at the very least knows his feelings towards her. Possession, power, control, these are the things that dominate their relationship. Her independence, her freedom, her right to choose had never been in the cards. She suddenly feels as small and powerless as she had at the beginning, like the road forward is long and dark and narrow and winding, full of twists and turns she can’t anticipate. She comes back to the present to see Meg and Raoul staring at her, mirror expressions on their faces—eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed in a frown—and she shakes her head. “Sorry, I was just thinking. Raoul’s secret talents? He can juggle. It’s quite impressive, actually.” 

Meg, determined to let the moment pass, bursts into riotous laughter at the thought of Raoul juggling, and Christine, even more determined, joins in. She is being silly, dwelling on these things. Silence is not a bad thing, quiet is not inherently wicked, she has just spent too much time with constant noise in her head to see that. It is easy to let the chill roll off her back here, in the daylight, Raoul’s hand in her lap and Meg’s knees touching hers, surrounded by nothing sinister or secret or strange at all. After a moment of hesitation in which Raoul stares at Christine with narrowed eyes, he laughs too, though she can’t help but feel that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

This new knowledge reawakens some of her old fears, though. The fact that they are doing repairs on the opera house means that they intend to reopen it—and soon, from the sound of it—and begin production once more. Christine doesn’t know what they are considering, but if Monsieur André’s parting words all those weeks ago hold true, she will be expected to return. The thought fills her with fear and hesitation. There had once been a time when she dreamed of nothing but singing, being a prima donna, filling the world with music the way her father had done for her, but now the prospect has begun to fill her with a thick, black dread. How bitter it is, to have achieved that dream, to have been at the top of the world, to have been so cold and alone the whole time, shadowed by the wing of some haunted angel. There had been a time when music brought her joy and warmth, when singing was the only thing that felt like home. And now, she does not know if she will ever sing again. 

That is, of course, the other terrible thing. She does not think she is even capable of singing anymore, not after everything. Her voice is still strong, she knows this, but she cannot bring herself to even sing a note for fear that it will lead her Angel to her. She knows she is being foolish, but she has learned the power of a voice these past few years, and learned the cost of underestimating her Angel’s intelligence. How bitter it is, this terrible melancholy; she feels as if she has lost her father all over again. This paralyzing fear of singing is like a fear of breathing, it’s foolish and detrimental in the end. She begins to slip into a terrible melancholy as the summer draws to a close and September sweeps in, losing sleep again thinking about her Angel, the Phantom, thinking about her path forward, wondering if she even has one. She has not forgiven herself yet, for all the terrible mess she caused, but the guilt does not give way to answers. She tosses and turns at night, agonizing over these things. How can she possibly go back, knowing her Angel as she does, knowing that he will not rest until she sings for him once more? How can she not, knowing that if she saves herself she will be condemning them all to some terrible fate? 

Raoul notices. He always does. He provides what comfort he can—twines their fingers together in his lap under the table, plays with her hair as they sit on park benches, keeps a hand on the small of her back to let her know he’s there, he’s supporting her, he will not let her fall—but it is never during the waking hours that these things bother her so much. She is happy to spend time with him, to forget everything—and he is such a good distraction—but he cannot be there all the time. It is the nights that truly plague her, cause her to lose her appetite once more, bring back the purple shadows under her eyes that had disappeared over the summer. 

“I thought we might have a conversation,” he says one morning over breakfast, on one of those rare days when Philippe has left them on their own to dine in the suite, himself going to oversee some matter in another corner of the building. 

“Are we not?” Christine asks, smiling. They had been reminiscing again before this interjection, talking about Raoul’s parents, this time. They don’t often discuss them because the subject makes him sad, but when she is able to get him to talk, she does. She thinks it helps. 

“I thought we might look to the future, rather than the past,” he says. 

“How so?” 

“Have you given any thought to your career?” 

“What kind of thought?” Christine asks, carefully. The truth is she has given it rather a lot of thought, many of these requiring much longer conversations than should happen over a breakfast table, but she knows that Raoul is trying to ask a specific question, and she will make him ask it, rather than playing this roundabout game of cat and mouse. She focuses her attention on trying to spear a grape on the end of her fork. It keeps skittering around the plate, forcing her to chase it. 

“Well, for starters, whether you might like to find a new voice tutor?” 

“Ah,” Christine says. The answer to this question is rather simple, then. 

“I am sure Monsieur Reyer would be happy to—” 

“No.”

He blinks. “Well, if not Monsieur Reyer, then I’m sure we can find someone else. Paris is a large city—” 

“No, Raoul,” she says, abandoning her grape and looking at his eyes. “I mean I don’t want to continue voice lessons.” 

“I see,” Raoul says slowly, but she can see that he does not. He is regarding her with a kind of suspicion and concern. “Might I ask why?” Sometimes he is argumentative when they have these conversations, he has opinions and he wants to share them, but this is not one of those times. Christine sees in his gaze that he is genuinely looking to understand, to help. 

She bites her lip, wavering on telling him the truth. Her fears, her concerns, all the reasons her voice has been caught in the back of her throat for nearly two months, but she is terrified. Vulnerability is dangerous, she reminds herself all the time, and keeping secrets has become second nature. She is not so scared of Raoul hurting her as she is of giving him the sort of information that might put an even larger target on his back for her Angel. It is a rare thing that he misses when he shoots. 

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” Raoul says, and he doesn’t look hurt or disappointed at all, which makes Christine feel even guiltier. She does not deserve his patience, his kindness. 

“I do want to tell you,” she whispers, putting her head in her hands again. “I’m just scared.” 

He crosses around the table, kneels before her, takes her hands into his and looks up into her eyes. “Hey,” he says, “I know. I’m scared too.” 

She sighs, looks at him. There is a certain kind of earnest warmth in his eyes that is special only to him. “I can’t sleep,” she finally says. It is not the whole truth, but it is a start. 

“Can I do anything to help?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don’t see how, it’s just that I’m terribly afraid of… him.” 

He nods, like she’s confirming his suspicions. “I can place guards outside the door,” he offers, but she shakes her head. 

“It’s not the door that frightens me,” she mumbles. “It’s the mirror.”

“The mirror?” 

“In my bedroom.” She feels foolish, but Raoul only nods and stands, going to investigate the mirror in question. She has covered it with a sheet and resorted to only using the bathroom mirror instead, but the idea that it’s there at all makes her feel as if someone is watching. 

“Christine,” he calls, and his voice sounds strained, “might you come help me for a moment?” She hurries in and finds him wrestling with the mirror, in the process of turning it so the glass faces the wall, only it’s much taller than him and dreadfully heavy and he isn’t seeming to have much luck. “Could you untangle this sheet from my feet?” he asks, panting slightly. 

“Raoul, be careful, your arm!” Christine says, hurrying forward to gather the sheet before he trips. “Oh, leave it, I’m being foolish.” 

He lets the mirror lean back against the wall and covers it with the sheet again, frowning. “Your fears are not foolish,” he says, “and if there is anything I can do to alleviate them, I will do it. No matter how silly it seems.” 

Christine sighs, and rests her head against his chest. “I just wish you could _be_ here,” she confesses. “Even if you were in the other room, it would make me feel better.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and rubs a hand on her back in apology. “Christine,” he says, “I wish so too. I daresay I’d sleep better in your arms than I do at home, tossing and turning and worrying about you all alone here. Philippe’s stupid rules—” 

“Are unfortunate, but necessary,” Christine finishes for him, because she has a feeling that he was about to say something far less diplomatic. 

“I’ll have Philippe send some men to turn the mirror,” he says, frowning. “I wish I could do more.”

“You do more than enough,” Christine says. 

That is, it seems, not good enough for him, though. As Christine lies awake, staring at the sheet-covered expanse of mirror on the wall, imagining that she can feel those burning eyes from behind the cover, behind the glass, miles away. She’s being ridiculous, _he’s not here,_ she knows that because even the burn of his eyes on her skin her imagination conjures pales in comparison to the real thing, like flames are licking her very insides. Still, she keeps Raoul’s words in her mind, _your fears are not foolish,_ and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling instead. She does not how long it has been—minutes, hours, years, perhaps—when she swears she hears the door open. The sound is agonizing in the silence, she is sure that it is the door to the suite opening, somebody walking around, and it paralyzes her in bed for a moment, cursing the fact that she did not tell Raoul to post guards outside her door, before she grows angry. She will _not_ let this fear consume her, she is probably imagining this, and she throws back her covers, donning her dressing gown and taking up the heaviest book she can find—the Bible, as fate would have it, appropriate for matters of devilish Angels—and opens the door. 

At first she sees no one in the dark of the suite and thinks she must have imagined the whole thing—ridiculous, really—but before she can turn around and go back to bed she hears shuffling by the front door, and her heart jumps to her throat again. She takes a few tentative steps forward, rounding the corner and raising the book in her hands, when suddenly the lamps by the door sputter to life and illuminate Raoul, bent over and fiddling with his shoelaces, and she screams. 

“Christ almighty!” Raoul shouts, jumping nearly a foot in the air and turning around. “Christine!” He eyes the book in her hands, raised over her head, and blinks. “Were you going to brain me with the Bible?”

“Yes!” she says, throwing it at his chest anyway and clutching a hand to her heart. It is racing, pounding so hard she thinks it will break a rib, and she steadies herself against the wall. “Have you any _idea_ how much you scared me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, laughing now, and she starts to laugh too as her heartbeat returns to normal and he pulls her into his arms. “I didn’t know the best way to go about this.”

“Well _whatever_ it is, I can assure you that the best way to go about it was _not_ breaking and entering into my room at—” she checks the clock by the door “—half past one in the morning!” 

“For the record,” he says, “I have a key. So I didn’t exactly _break in.”_

“I am _not_ in the mood to discuss the semantics of how you gained access, Raoul. What are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” he says, and it’s so hard to stay angry with him because she knows he genuinely did. Still. 

“And flowers and chocolates wouldn’t have done the trick?” she grumbles. 

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, “I do have chocolates. No flowers, though.” He lets go of her and picks up the bag he had deposited by the door and offers it to her. 

“Hmm,” she says, inspecting its contents. “Chocolate… milk… marshmallows… You broke into my hotel room to make me hot chocolate in the middle of the night?” 

“I thought we established that I didn’t break, I merely entered with my key. And, why I’m here is a surprise,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Why don’t you go warm the milk in the kitchen? And don’t come out until I say so.” 

“Raoul, what—”

He presses another kiss to her lips. “No questions,” he murmurs against them. “Trust me.” 

She sighs, but does as he asks. It’s not like she was asleep anyway, she thinks as she pours the milk into a pot and warms it on the stove. She can hear Raoul doing something in the drawing room, rustling and moving furniture. 

“Are you ready?” she calls, adding a few marshmallows to each cup of hot chocolate. 

“Almost!” he calls back, and she shakes her head. She has almost forgiven him for scaring her half to death, almost, but her curiosity is getting the better of her. She sits in the kitchen, tapping her foot in impatience until he appears in the doorway and reaches out his hands to her and pulls her up from the chair. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. 

“Raoul—” 

“Shh,” he says. “Humor me, won’t you?” She sighs and does as he asks. His smile is so delightful, even now, at two in the morning, it’s impossible to say no when he is looking at her like that, and she allows him to lead her into the drawing room. “Open them,” he murmurs, his mouth close to her ear, arms snaking around her waist and chin on her shoulder. 

“Oh,” she says, in touched surprise. He has transformed her drawing room into a magnificent kingdom of blankets and sheets and pillows, hauling the bedding from her bedroom—and some blankets from his own home, it appears—and draping it over the furniture. Suddenly tears spring to her eyes, and she finds herself blinking them back. “Raoul.” 

“Why are you crying?” he asks, suddenly distressed. “Did I do something wrong? I can put it back, I’ll go home—” 

“No,” she whispers, shushing him with her lips. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I love you.” 

“Oh,” he says, blushing delightfully pink. “Good. I mean, I’m glad. I love you too. You said you weren’t sleeping and that you wished I were here but I thought you might not want to share a bed before we’re married—not of course that I’m expecting you to marry me or anything if you don’t want to, but I digress—so this seemed like a nice compromise, and it’s almost like we’re children again, remember how we used to do this by the seaside and my mother would always get so mad in the morning that I took the sheets from my bed and—” 

“Raoul,” Christine whispers. “Are you nervous? You ramble when you’re nervous.” 

“ _Yes,_ ” he says, emphatically. “I am absolutely terrified.” 

She laughs again, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “You needn’t be. I love it.” 

He blushes a deeper red. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We don’t have to sleep, if you don’t want. We can just lie here and talk, or not talk, it’s up to you.” 

She shushes him again and goes to get the hot chocolate. When she returns, she can see his socks poking out from the end of the blanket house and she crawls in after him, careful not to spill their drinks everywhere. He welcomes her into his embrace, taking his cup and clinking it gently against hers before taking a sip and closing his eyes.

“With cinnamon?” he asks. “The way your father used to make it.” 

“He would be so happy for us, Raoul,” Christine says, touching his cheek. “I am so happy.” 

He catches her hand and presses a kiss to her fingers. “I know.” 

Raoul is so beautiful. She thinks this at least ten times a day; when the sunlight catches in his hair in the park or illuminates the freckles across his skin; when he is happy and smiling and kicking around a ball with a group of children who have begged him to join in their fun, even though he is wearing his nice clothes; when he looks up from the paper at her, eager to tell her something he’s just learned; when he rolls his eyes and makes playful faces at Philippe’s back after his older brother has just told him off for something; when he is gazing at a book, focused and intent, lips pursed and brow furrowed; a million other small beautiful moments that are too many to count. All of those pale in comparison to him like this, hair messy from the pillows and face halfway illuminated by the light of the lamps, dimmed by the blankets. His arms are warm and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, so she can see just a little of the expanse of his chest. She lets her fingers run along this skin, lets them slip beneath the fabric so she can feel his heart beat against the palm of her hand uninhibited. Her own gives a loud thump in response, and she presses a kiss to his jaw. He opens his eyes and looks at her through those lovely and long lashes, gaze hazy with happiness and tenderness and a million other emotions that surely have names in other languages, long dead languages, languages written in the stars, but are simply indescribable in this one. 

They do talk, about little things and nothings and things that are in between, like the dresses she got from the tailor and the Greek statues at the Louvre and what it must have been like to live in other centuries, whether the moon is reachable, the stars, other worlds, other universes. Christine thinks they must be, all these things, but it doesn’t matter because in every universe she would choose this. Them. Him. 

She falls silent after a while, thoughtful and warm in the safe circle of his arms. “What are you thinking about, Little Lotte?” he murmurs, lips by her ear. They are lying on the ground, her back against his chest and his faced tucked into her neck, their legs tangled together. She is holding his hand against her heart, absentmindedly drawing circles on the back of his arm as she thinks and thinks and thinks. 

“How do you know I’m thinking?” she asks. “I could have been asleep.”

“You are thinking so loudly I can almost hear it,” he says.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Sorry? Whatever for? Thinking too loud?” he kisses her, behind her ear. “There’s no such thing. I love to watch you think. I love to hear your thoughts.” 

She shifts and he loosens his arms enough for her to roll over so she can face him. She buries her face in his chest. “I don’t think you’d love to hear these ones.” 

“Nonsense,” Raoul says. She hears it in his chest. “I would love to hear any thought you have.” 

She decides to throw caution to the wind. “The Phantom—my Angel—is a man,” she says, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just places a protective hand on her back and nods for her to go on. “He is a man, and he has been my teacher for nearly three years, only I did not know that he was a man until recently, when I met him.” As she has found is often the case, talking is not nearly so hard once she gets started. It feels good disclose all this information, at long last, to Raoul. She does not feel like she’s lying, or has anything to hide now she is revealing this thing, this secret, strange and sinister. He listens while she talks, playing with her hair and wiping away her tears when they fall. She talks for a long time. She tells him almost everything; about the chapel, the voice, the tenor, the dreams, her suspicions about him being her father’s ghost, her suspicions about him being the Opera Ghost. She tells him about the man in the mirror and the underground lair. Her voice stumbles when she gets here, she can’t stop seeing his face in the darkness and feeling his voice all around her, in her very soul. She spares him the details, suffices it to say that she knows her Angel to be a man and a mystery, something like a pitiful monster. He closes his eyes, here, and she does not know if he is trying to picture the cavern with its candles and its metal trees, the twisting passageways and the little boat, or if he is trying to block the pain of her words. She only leaves out the deal that she has struck for his life. She knows he will be upset if he hears that she’s made such a promise, paid such a price, and so far away from the danger it seems there is no reason to tell him. So she glides over this, talking instead about the way her Angel has used his power to control her, had forbidden her from pursuing her love. If Raoul knows she is not being entirely honest, he does not say anything, only nods and frowns as she tells him more. He will afford her her secrets, it seems, and for that she is thankful. He does not interrupt, only holds her a little tighter until she has talked herself hoarse. 

Then, only then, does he press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, “Christ, Christine.” 

“Do you hate me?” she asks. “Have I trapped you in this relationship knowing now that I am tainted?” 

“What?” he asks, weakly. “Hate you? Christine, I could never hate you. I think I am quite incapable of hating you.” 

“But—” 

“But nothing. You have been manipulated, lied to, tortured by a madman’s fantasies for the past three years, and yet you have continued to try to see the good in him and to share your voice with him, how could I hate you for that? If anything, I love you more.” 

“Why?”

“Because you never cease to amaze me with how brave you are.” 

“I don’t _feel_ very brave,” she says. “I’m too scared to even sing.” 

“You have every reason to be scared,” Raoul says, “and yet you are telling me all of these things, when _I_ have not given you any reason to trust me with them.” 

“Raoul, you have—” 

“No, Christine, I haven’t,” he says. “I have belittled your fears at every turn, told you that it’s all in your head because I am the one who struggles to believe without seeing. And for that, I am sorry.” 

How strange it is to have somebody apologize for being wrong. Raoul’s admission of his own faults is so foreign from her Angel—even if he is still skeptical, he is making an attempt. She cannot imagine her Angel ever doing this, ever apologizing to her for kidnapping her and threatening to keep her there, for killing Buquet or dropping the chandelier, and all these things are much worse crimes than what Raoul has committed. She wonders if there even is a sense of right and wrong in someone so alone, so sad, so desperate. 

“Raoul,” she says, “I think the worst thing is that I don’t want to see him hurt. He has done terrible things to people—to _me_ —but he saved me. How can I turn my back on him?” 

“You’re a better person than I,” Raoul murmurs, tucking some hair behind her ear. “You are kind and forgiving and good, Christine.” 

“There’s no way forward that doesn’t have him in it.” 

“Perhaps not,” Raoul says. He has never been one for lying, but this proclamation is not so terrifying here, in his arms in their little haven, safe and warm and with each other. “But often the only way through the storm is to weather it. I promised you that I would be your shelter, and so I shall. I will let no harm come to you at his hands.” 

It is so easy to believe that in this moment, surrounded by the hazy glow of the lamps and their love. The idea that someone is out there, waiting, biding his time, planning to hurt them is almost laughable—almost, and neither of them are laughing—while the night is calm and beautiful. They are like children again, tucked into this nest of blankets and warmth and tender things, far from any sort of danger, divine or mortal may it be. Christine doesn’t say anything, just rests her head on Raoul’s chest, ear pressed against his heart. His arms are tight around her and she can feel his breathing begin to slow and steady. 

“Raoul?” she whispers.

“Hmm?” he hums. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“Everything.” 

He turns his head enough to press his lips to her temple and tightens his arms around her. It is so easy, loving him. Now she has shared this burden she finds it is not so unbearable upon her own back, and Raoul’s calm reassurance has left her feeling untouchable, at least in this moment. She can pretend she does not have a price on her head, she can pretend that she does not know what is waiting for her should she return to the opera house, she can pretend that she has not experienced terrible things in her life, only this kind of all-consuming love that feels so safe and so secure it makes her heart ache. She can push away the worries, forget her cares and forget the decisions that must be made for just a night. She can let herself drift into a sweet, dreamless sleep, warm and soft, her heart thumping in time with her love’s on the floor of this fancy hotel room. 

Raoul is no architect, perhaps thankfully so, as the fort begins to droop and collapses upon them in the night. When Christine wakes she finds herself buried under a pile of blankets, Raoul’s bare arms twined around her body, he having shed his shirt and she her dressing gown sometime in the warmth of the intervening hours. She stirs, stretching, and Raoul grumbles and pulls her closer, burying his face in her hair. 

“Stop moving.” His voice is muffled by the blankets and her hair and he has trapped her in his arms, nuzzling his nose against her head. “Stay here.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, tapping his arms so he will loosen them and allow her to roll over. She can’t help but smile when she manages this, pushing back some of the blankets to see his face. If this is what she will wake up to every day for the rest of her life, she will never complain. His hair is more of a mess than usual and she is close enough to count the freckles on his skin. She begins doing just this until his eyes flutter open and he looks down at her with a smile on his face. 

“What are you staring at?” He asks.

“You. You’re beautiful, do you know that?” A blush colors his cheeks and his neck. Without his shirt she can see he has a mole on his shoulder, and she ducks her head to press a kiss to it, and to the notch between his collarbones and to the place where his neck meets his jaw. “You need to shave. You’re getting scruffy.” 

“You don’t like me scruffy?” he asks in mock hurt. “Perhaps I ought to show you how nice scruffy can be.” He rolls them over, kicking free of some of the blankets from his feet and settling himself on top of her, pressing tingling kisses to her face and her jaw and her neck. She is laughing and squirming as his fingers ghost along her arms and his kisses tickle her skin when suddenly the blanket that he has pulled over them disappears, and Raoul rolls over in surprise, pulling her onto his chest with him. Christine twists around to see Philippe standing over them, wearing an expression that is a cross between amusement and annoyance. 

“I thought I might find you here, brother,” he says, and Raoul groans and drops his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, automatically, and Christine can’t help but laugh at that. 

“And what, exactly, does it look like?” Philippe asks, arching an eyebrow. He is silhouetted by the sunlight, arms crossed and lips pursed as he stares down at them, tangled in their blanket nest and half undressed.

“Something improper, no doubt,” Raoul says. 

“No doubt,” Philippe nods. “Caroline was worried sick this morning, she was certain you’d gone and gotten yourself killed in the dead of night. Could you not have at least left a note?”

“I didn’t think.” 

“That much, I think, is clear. Would you care to explain yourselves further?” He turns his attention to Christine, now, too, who shrinks and buries her smile against Raoul’s bare chest. “Naturally,” Philippe sighs. “At any rate, we have an engagement to attend. Raoul, you are lucky I brought you a spare set of clothes, though I hardly have a mind to leave you to dress anywhere where Miss Daaé might be a distraction to you.” He throws a pile of clothes at Raoul, who lets them hit his face with another groan. “However, kind as I am, I shall give you two a moment to compose yourselves.” He doesn’t go far, Christine can hear him clattering around in the kitchen making tea. 

She reaches up and knocks the pair of trousers from Raoul’s face. He is blushing something fierce as he looks at her, trying to suppress a smile. 

“I think Philippe might put guards outside _your_ door,” she says, and Raoul laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

“That would be if I’m lucky,” Raoul says. “More likely Caroline will fire the nanny and have _me_ watch their children for the next year. I’m afraid you’ll never see me again, if that is the case.” 

“We should dress,” Christine says, starting to rise but held in place by Raoul’s embrace. 

“Can’t we just stay here?” he whines, playing with the strap of her nightgown. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.” 

“You heard Philippe, we have an engagement to attend,” Christine says, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now let me up.” 

He does, reluctantly and not without several more attempts to get her to stay with various promises of running away and little houses on the seashore and kisses and no responsibility. It’s hard to say no to him, so soft and sweet first thing in the morning, but she at last extricates herself from his grip and goes to the bathroom to wash and dress. Her new dresses from the tailor have come in, it is nice to finally wear something that fits her properly, and she chooses a lovely orange one for this September day, made of a light fabric so she might not roast in the sun. When she returns she finds Raoul dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen while Philippe chastises him for his lack of thought. 

“It’s my fault, Philippe,” Christine says, taking the seat between them and accepting the tea that Raoul pushes towards her. “I told Raoul that I wasn’t sleeping well, he only wanted to help.” 

“How chivalrous,” Philippe says. “You are only lucky the nighttime guard can be bought with a bottle of scotch, Raoul. I think your midnight wanderings will go unspoken of.” 

Christine smiles at him from over her cup of tea and Raoul smiles back with a faint blush. “So,” she says, “what is this engagement we must attend, Philippe?”

“Lunch,” is all Philippe offers, and Christine narrows her eyes, sensing the worst because Philippe will not quite meet her gaze. 

Worst is absolutely right. As the carriage draws to a stop outside a lovely little restaurant in the first arrondissement near the Tuileries and Raoul helps her out, Christine can’t help but feel that she is about to face the executioner. This is confirmed as they enter the restaurant and the host shows them to a booth tucked into a secluded corner where two men are already seated. 

“No,” Raoul says, turning to Philippe and putting an arm around Christine’s shoulders. “I will not.” 

“You will,” Philippe says, taking Christine’s hand and placing it in the crook of his own elbow so that he can lead her to the table. Raoul follows behind, and Christine could swear that he is literally dragging his feet.

“Miss Daaé, Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Monsieur André addresses them, about as politely as possible as Raoul pulls out a chair for Christine to take her seat. 

“Monsieur André,” Christine says, offering her hand. Monsieur André clasps it briefly, and extends his own to both Philippe and Raoul, the latter of which has to be prompted to return the gesture. 

“Monsieur Firmin,” Philippe says. 

Monsieur Firmin remains silent, glaring intently at Raoul, who is glaring equally furiously back. Christine has to admit that his nose does, perhaps, look a little crooked, but decides to keep this fact to herself for the time being. After a tense moment in which no one speaks, Monsieur André clears his throat again, looking around with a forced smile. 

“How lovely to see you both!” he says, though it is very strained. “Miss Daaé, I hope you are well.” 

“Quite,” Christine says, though she feels as if her stomach is in her throat at this moment. 

“Excellent, excellent,” he says. “We are, of course, all suffering with this temporary postponement. Ah, to be deprived of the arts!”

Christine sits silently for a moment, scrutinizing Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin—who is now staring resolutely at the menu and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes—before Raoul cuts in. 

“What are we doing here?” 

“Raoul,” Philippe hisses. 

“This is but a meeting between friends,” Monsieur André says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Messieurs André and Firmin kindly extended an invitation to us all for lunch, so that they might congratulate you on your courtship,” Philippe says. 

“Sorry,” Raoul says, raising a hand, “not to be rude or anything,” which almost always precedes when he is going to say something that could most certainly be perceived as rude, “but the last time this particular group of people was together, Monsieur Firmin accused my love of killing a man and then of being the Opera Ghost, so you might forgive me for my confusion. I’ll ask again, what are we doing here?” 

“Right,” Monsieur André says as Phillipe glares at his brother. “We thought that a business meeting was in order, and thus required the presence of you, our patron. Your brother thought he might attend as well, so as to provide some… advice, should it be necessary.” 

“So this is purely business?”

“One could put it that way—” 

“Then I do not see why Christine needs to be present at a business meeting.” 

“Miss Daaé is an employee of the opera, is she not?” 

“Yes, but she is the only employee of the opera present. Why not Signora Giudicelli? Or Madame and Mademoiselle Giry? Signor Piangi? If this business meeting is of concern to employees of the opera, why is it taking place here, and not at the opera house itself?” 

“I think you know why Miss Daaé is here, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Monsieur Firmin snarls.

“I would like to hear your opinions on that matter, Messieurs,” Raoul says, keeping a remarkably calm head. Christine has an idea of why she’s here, but she, like Raoul, is rather curious as to what the Managers think they are doing. 

“She is here because you are here,” sniffs Monsieur Firmin, “tragically.” 

“So she is here as my consort? In that case, is it not a conflict of interest, to be having a business meeting about opera matters while Christine, an employee of the opera, is here as my consort?” Both Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin stare at Raoul in silence. “So,” he continues, lazily unfolding his napkin and draping it across his lap, “I’ll ask one more time. What are we doing here?”

Christine is prone to forgetting that Raoul was raised in the world of the aristocracy. He is so humble, so lovely, so young and free and uninhibited when he is around her, that she forgets that he has learned the rules of high society, he knows how to dominate a room and a conversation, he is well versed in the arts of underhanded diplomacy and passive aggression. He has no problem navigating these sorts of interactions without looking bothered at all, when he wants. He is charming and handsome and wickedly smart and it makes him a formidable verbal opponent. She can’t help but admire this, in this moment, as she watches Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin flounder for words across the table. Subtly, silently, Raoul reaches under the table and intertwines his fingers with hers, resting their hands in her lap. 

“We are here to discuss the matter of the Opera Ghost,” Monsieur André says, at long last. 

“Aha,” Raoul says, “a real answer at last.” 

Christine had been dreading this, and the confirmation stills her heart. Disclosing her fears, her concerns, her secrets to Raoul in the warmth of their blankets and the faith in his love is one thing. Discussing them here, aloud and in public, with two men she cannot admit to particularly trusting, is entirely different. She stares at them, warily, and Raoul squeezes her hand under the table. 

“In what capacity?” Christine finally says.

“As I’m sure you are aware, the Opera Populaire is set to reopen in the coming weeks,” Monsieur André says. Christine shoots a look at Raoul, who avoids her eyes. She _hadn’t_ been aware of that. “And with that opening, we are prepared to extend to you a certain… conditional return offer.” 

“Sorry, but why?” Christine asks, suspicious.

“Excuse me?” Monsieur Firmin blusters. “I hardly think that it is customary to asking _why_ one is being offered a job!” 

“I _did_ say that I thought you would have a future with us, Miss Daaé,” says Monsieur André. “Your talent is simply too good to lose.” 

“Is it that?” Christine asks, “Because Carlotta has been the lead for nineteen seasons, and even after I went on as Elissa you reinstated her because you seem to think she sells tickets.” 

“Signora Giudicelli has a number of loyal admirers,” Monsieur André says. 

“Yourself included, Monsieur, no?” Raoul muses, stirring his drink lazily. 

Monsieur André flails for words for a moment. “Regardless,” he finally says. “There are a number of roles on the docket for next season for which Miss Daaé would be a perfect fit. She makes, I think we can all agree, a lovely ingenue.” 

“As flattered as I am that you want me to return again,” Christine says, “I still don’t think that this offer has much to do with my talent. Might I ask what the conditions of this ‘conditional return offer’ are?” 

“You will do everything in your power to keep your little Ghost at bay,” Monsieur Firmin states. 

Christine actually laughs at the same moment Raoul makes a noise of outrage and leans forward to say something. She squeezes his hand to tell him _stop, let me,_ and he sits back, glaring daggers at Monsieur Firmin. 

“You want me to put myself at risk to keep the Ghost from shattering your new chandelier?” she asks, fishing an olive out of Raoul’s drink and popping it into her own mouth. She has not spent the last months ignorant to Raoul’s talent for playing a room, rather, she has learned a few tricks of her own. She takes a long moment to chew in contemplation before leveling her gaze at the Managers again. “Need I remind you that _you_ are the ones receiving his demands? I am hardly in any position to pay his salary or hire new musicians. That happy matter, I think, falls to the two of you.” 

“You do, though, find yourself in the unique position of having a certain level of…. shall we say, influence over the Ghost, don’t you think?” Monsieur Firmin sneers. 

“No,” Christine says, “I think that he has just as much power over me as he does over you. Unless, of course, you are suggesting something I am missing?” 

“I think you know what I am suggesting,” Monsieur Firmin snaps. 

“Do I?” 

“That you have been consorting with the Phantom of the Opera for a number of years in a rather _intimate_ manner!” 

This time Raoul does get involved, as he seems wont to do when matters of her honor arise. “Those are not the sort of accusations you should be leveling at a lady over lunch, or ever, Monsieur Firmin,” he says, his tone chilled and dangerous. 

“I simply meant—”

“I think we all know what you meant, Richard,” Philippe says, coldly. “And I do not think that any of us really believe that of Miss Daaé. If you could, perhaps, get to the specifics of your offer rather than these ungrounded accusations, we might still be able to salvage this business lunch.” 

“Yes,” Monsieur André says, ploughing over Monsieur Firmin. “Of course. The specifics. Well, ah, Miss Daaé would be asked to return in full capacity as a principal cast member and understudy to Signora Giudicelli, and would, furthermore, be asked to act as liaison between the Ghost and the administration.” 

“I see,” Christine says, pursing her lips. “Which returns me, I think, to my earlier point: He does not need a liaison. He will do what he pleases, whether I am involved or not. I think what you should really be asking here, instead of for me to put myself in his control once more, is whether _you_ are prepared to adhere to his commands this time around. I hear your new chandelier was rather expensive.” 

“We do not negotiate with madmen, Miss Daaé,” says Monsieur Firmin, haughtily. 

“But you want me to.”

“Well, when you put it like that—” says Monsieur André.

“Put it exactly how your partner just did?” 

“It’s only that the Ghost seems extraordinarily fond of you,” Monsieur André says. “It would be a shame not to use that to our advantage.” 

“‘Extraordinarily fond,’” Christine muses, “yes, I can see that. Extraordinary fondness often results in attempted murder.” 

“I can see that you have consigned yourself to be as unhelpful as our patron,” Monsieur Firmin says. 

“I have consigned myself to make my own decisions,” Christine says, “and I will not allow myself to be controlled by a Ghost or by your incompetence any longer.” She stands and Raoul follows suit, immediately. 

“Miss Daaé!” Messieurs André and Firmin cry in unison. 

“Wait—” Monsieur André says. 

“Perhaps we can arrive at a conclusion—” says Monsieur Firmin.

“No,” Christine says, donning her gloves, “I think we’re quite done here. Raoul, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d like to spend our afternoon elsewhere.”

Raoul hurriedly offers her his arm, with a glare at the Managers. “All further business matters should be sent through care of my family’s assistant, Louis Betancourt,” he says, “he will relay them to me.” 

“Miss Daaé,” Monsieur André calls, standing. She looks at him. “The offer will still stand. Whenever you are ready to grace us with your presence once more, we will be happy to have you.” 

Christine inclines her head. “Whenever you are ready to face this problem properly,” she says, “I might be happy to return.” 

She leads Raoul out of the restaurant, Philippe going ahead to call the carriage. As she steps back into the September sunshine—weak, and on its last legs, but there nonetheless—she can’t help but contemplate how different things have become. This strange silence of her Angel has lasted too long; everyone is tense, everyone is waiting. Privately, she thinks they are all underestimating the Ghost. Nothing that Christine can do is capable of placating him any longer, that much she is nearly certain of. Not in the wake of her betrayal. There is no doubt that he will make an appearance at the opening performance of the season, no doubt that there will be a catastrophe if she is not on that stage. Still, while she can make a choice, she will not rush headlong into these games any longer.  And if this all feels like a trap, if the Managers, Carlotta, the Phantom, her Angel feel like they are playing her like a pawn, she will not let them. Though she fears, quietly, in the back of her mind, that there will be a day when she does not have a choice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only thing you need to know about me really is that i love the latin language more than any other earthly thing and the catholic church really missed an opportunity english translation of the confiteor by only ever translating culpa as crime

The first time he came to her it had been her seventeenth birthday. Her birthdays had never been a bitter thing before her fifteenth, when her father took his final breaths, holding her hand and wasting away, but she has grown to dread them now. Her sixteenth was lonely. Her seventeenth, a gift. Her eighteenth spent in the clutches of an Angel she had thought loved her. As she stares at herself in the mirror on the morning of her nineteenth birthday, she can’t help but feel a mess of emotions. 

Chief among them is trepidation. It has been a long time since her birthdays were an occasion for celebration, now, anything more than an occasion for mourning her father and, now, mourning her Angel. She feels as if anxiety and dread are eating her inside out as she waits for her Phantom to emerge from her mirror. 

Nothing happens after five minutes and she breathes a sigh of relief and, she thinks, disappointment. She does not know what she had been expecting. His voice? His face? His presence? Answers, at the very least. Some clarity. Some inclination of what she should do. But this bathroom mirror is only a bathroom mirror and Christine is still Christine, with curly brown hair that has always been difficult to tame and eyes that she has been told are warm and inviting and a smile that lights up stages, if only she would ever get the chance again. 

She has not returned. She has not gone back to the opera house yet. The newspapers are riddled with speculations about the reason for a bright young star’s sudden retirement. Some say she was fired, but few believe that. Others say she has fallen ill, and this one gains some traction as she retreats to the confines of _La Parisienne_ as September becomes October becomes November. One tabloid suggests she is pregnant by the Vicomte, and that is why she is always on his arm. Raoul laughs heartily at this one, seemingly unbothered though the ladies at Caroline’s next luncheon gossip fiercely, and Christine makes a point of wearing dresses that emphasize the trimness of her waist and distinct _lack_ of an expanding belly. 

Still, though, none of them get the truth, which is that she is in the midst of an emotional war with herself. She could go, get to sing and cave to the Manager’s request, resume her contact with the Phantom and risk losing Raoul and losing herself. Or she stays away, she embraces this new life away from the terror and the paranoia and the constant drug of his voice. The surprising thing is, they both sound appealing in their own ways. She would not mind abandoning the world of the opera so much these days. She would not mind these beautiful things outside the opera house like traveling, seeing the world, having a family, doing all the things her father wished for her beyond singing on a stage. She cannot imagine he had ever intended for this to happen. 

But then, of course, her thoughts wander to _him_. She is terrified of him, she has been since the start, she knows that now, but she is drawn to him. They are intimately connected, however she may have denied that fact previously, and the thought of turning her back on him forever without a goodbye, without ever knowing is just as terrible as returning to his clutches. Even more terrible, perhaps, because some days she wakes up and would give anything for that hazy fog to roll over her once more, for her choices to be made and her thoughts be calmed. 

How dark indeed it is to crave that darkness, to almost miss it. 

And then she remembers the fear again, remembers Buquet’s body swinging from the rafters, his head bent at an odd angle, remembers the chandelier falling towards her and the almighty crash on the stage, the blood and the screaming and the glass, and bile rises to her throat. She may not want to see the Phantom hurt, but that does not mean she is ready to put herself back in his clutches. She has learned that she wants more for herself and she has learned that she is not capable of doing this halfway. If she puts herself back within his reach at all, it will be the full thing. She is not sure he will be so forgiving next time. 

She is so young, and yet she feels so old. How can she be not yet twenty, but feel as if she has lived a million lifetimes? This, it seems, has been a consequence of this three-year nightmare that had seemed like a dream until so recently. She feels ancient without her father, like she has been an adult far longer than a year. It has only been in the past six months, since Raoul had burst back into her life in April, that she has begun to feel young again. But staring at herself now, in the mirror, she would not know it. She is tired, feels as if she is wasting away with at the hands of anticipation and dread, waiting for the Phantom to come for her, as he always does. In a way, it’s not so different than any other grief filled birthday. She is anxious, on edge, has been for the last few days, and will not mention it. 

As she turns from the mirror and goes to dress herself, to face this day she does not particularly want to face this year, she gravitates towards the black dress. She had ordered just one from the tailor, knowing she would need it at some point, though Raoul had thought the whole thing rather macabre. He would think it terribly morbid to wear it on her birthday, but he is not here yet. The morning is still early, the sun not yet up, and Philippe has been dreadfully strict about Raoul spending the night in his own bed since his midnight excursion to _La Parisienne_ those months ago. Raoul is probably still asleep—splayed across the bed and mouth open, snoring slightly like Christine knows for certain now that he does, covers tossed aside because he is like a radiator in his sleep—and will probably still be asleep for several hours. Christine’s attendant has not yet arrived for the day to help her dress, so Christine does the best she can by herself. 

As Christine looks at herself in the mirror, clothed in the dark but lovely dress with its high neck and buttons up the front, its cascading fabric around her hips and long sleeves, her hair pulled back in a tight bun away from her pale face, she cannot help but think she looks something like Madame Giry. Christine untucks the pins she had just so meticulously applied and lets her curls tumble down her back instead, untangling them with her fingers. The last thing she dons is a veil, lets it fall to just her collarbones, just enough to hide her face from prying eyes.

The morning is cold, as she had expected it to be. She should have worn her cloak, at the very least, but she hadn’t thought as she’d left. Still, she waves away the morning doorman who jumps to attention as he sees her—she suspects not many people have left the hotel so early—and offers to call her a carriage. A walk will do her good, even in the chill. It is lightly drizzling, the sort of rain you don’t really notice falling but that soaks you to your skin, but by the time she reaches the cathedral she is shivering and damp. Still, the cathedral is blessedly warm when she opens its doors. 

Notre Dame is a beautiful place. It is like a beautiful forest of stone inside, dimly lit with candles, and for one fleeting moment Christine recalls the underground lair—dark, mysterious, cavernous—but the ceilings of Notre Dame are high and vaulted and visible, the candles are warm and remind her of the other people who have walked these floors, the place is holy and sacred and warm and welcoming. Still, it is blessedly empty this early on a Thursday morning, and Christine lights a votive candle and makes the long walk down the aisle to the altar. Her heels click against the stone and echo, and somewhere she is sure either the priest or God can hear her. She wonders if they disturb him, or Him. When she reaches the front she places the candle, murmurs her father’s name, steps back to kneel before the steps to the altar. 

“Father,” she whispers. It comes out choked. It has been so long since she’s spoken to her father, so long she’s been afraid of stepping foot in this space. She is still afraid, afraid that her Angel will come, afraid that her father is not listening now she has spurned his help, his angel, afraid that the two are one and the same. This last one she knows cannot be true, not when her Angel is a man who walks the earth, but it is so easy to forget these things in the might of a place like Notre Dame, in the thought of a terror like her Angel, in the wake of such long years of fog. Would that her father had never promised her an Angel of music, would that her Angel had approached her anywhere else, would that he had never become the connection to Gustave Daaé’s ghost that she had so desperately craved, would that she’d had a choice in the matter! 

And still, even if she’d had a choice, she cannot say if she would not have chosen this. It’s a terrible thing. To have grown so intimately connected with this man, this monster, this mirror image of her father or of everything she’s ever dreamt of—she doesn’t know which is nearer the truth—it has been a nightmare but even nightmares are dreams in some way. Now she is facing her escape, it is in her hands and all she has to say is _I want it_ and she will never have to go back again, but she is terrified. Terrified of losing the connection with her father altogether, terrified of incurring her Angel’s wrath, terrified of having nothing left.

She does not pray out loud. She is not sure she feels totally worthy of being here, all the sins she’s committed—and she knows she has committed them—but God has never forced her out before and so she stays. She kneels on the floor, head bowed and eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, praying silently while outside Notre Dame the city begins to wake. She prays first and foremost for forgiveness for the things she has done and the things she has not done, for the guilt, the fault, for her greatest crime. She prays for salvation for her own soul and for her father’s, and for the strength to do what must be done, whatever it is, God help them both. She prays for a long time, until it seems she has run out of prayers to say—and given how much she has sinned this year, that is a lot of prayers—until she hears the bells ring.

They are so much louder here, inside the church, than they are from her suite at _La Parisienne._ Her father had used to talk about them all the time. He had said the bells of Notre Dame were the most beautiful sound of Paris. He had loved them so much, told her about their names, their histories, how there had been more, before the Revolution, how he imagines they would have hated to be those harbingers of death. He had been right; they seem to ring inside her heart, to vibrate her bones with the clear and beautiful sound of hope, victory, salvation. All these things, perhaps, are maybe not for her.

Is she so selfish to choose her own happiness over the safety of the people she loves? 

She does not have the answer yet, only bows her head and asks for it. 

She does not know how long it’s been when the bells stop ringing and she thinks she hears the door open. She stiffens, her breath waits still in her chest, frozen with fear and perhaps a morbid curiosity. 

 _Christine…_  

She knows she is dreaming it. Knows that he is not there, not here, only in her mind, but it knocks something loose inside her chest and suddenly her breath is rushing forth, a sob is rushing forth, the pain and the sadness and the fear and the regret and the nostalgia are rushing, her ribs are tumbling like the walls of Troy under the onslaught of sudden emotions. She can hear somebody’s footsteps hurrying down the aisle, does not bother herself with it, only another churchgoer come to pay their own respects to their troubles on this day—for who goes to church when they are not in trouble anymore? Certainly not she—and she pretends as if these footsteps don’t make her spine stiffen. 

“Christine.” It’s Raoul. Of course it’s Raoul. It’s always only ever been Raoul, and it always only ever will be Raoul. He doesn’t say anything else, only drapes something over her shoulders and kneels next to her, bowing his own head and waiting until she turns to him. He embraces her then and they stay kneeling there, before Christ and God and whoever else is watching, clutched in each other’s arms. She is crying into his shoulder but he lets her, steadies her, holds her tightly until the worst of it subsides. “He is so proud of you,” he finally says, pressing her head closer to him and kissing her temple. “He loves you so much.” 

“I miss him,” is all she says in return. 

And it’s the truth. She misses him still, even years after he’s been gone, even after she’s begun to finally allow herself to grieve. But this has been the first time she’s properly been _allowed_ to miss him in two years. There is no Angel of Music to tether him to her real world, not here, not now, just her and her father’s ghost and Raoul, who is gazing at the window as the weak sun finally begins to illuminate the cathedral, drenching them in a kaleidoscope of colors. Missing him is painful, but the kind of pain she can withstand. And withstand it she will, only she is determined to let herself feel it, at least here and now, to take the next step on that long and winding road to a day when she can remember him without crying, a day when she can remember him without a tinge of bitterness. She thinks she ought to visit him more often, perhaps even go to the cemetery, but the thought is too much for now. For now the church is enough, to speak to him is enough, to cry out the worst of this pain in Raoul’s arms is enough. 

When the tears at last have had their fill of her and her sadness becomes bearable she sits up and looks at Raoul. She has been cataloging the colors of his eyes, recently, thought she had memorized them all—the steely gray-blue of an unforgiving ocean when he is angry, the bright blue of a mountain stream when he is happy, the deep, sunrise sunset indigo of his desire—but this is a new one. They are a swirling lovely mixture of blue, it seems, a storm right before it ends, a war of emotions just in his eyes. The rims are slightly red. 

“How did you find me?” she asks. 

“I thought you might be here,” he says. “Your father always loved the bells.” 

Oh, how he had. “Can we go home now?” she whispers.   

He nods and stands, helping to her feet and sweeping her own cloak better around her shoulders. “I thought you might need this,” he says. “I saw it hanging in the closet.” 

There are so many things unsaid in that simple thought. _I love you, I care about you, I didn’t want you to be cold and wet, I looked for you, I was scared._ She hadn’t considered how her disappearance might frighten him, but he doesn’t say anything on the matter, only rests an arm around her shoulders and guides her back out of the church. She tucks an arm around his waist and her head against his chest as they walk, savoring his solidness, his warmth, the reassuring fact that he is here and he does not hold this terrible mess against her. 

It is no matter that she is no closer to any answers, has no clarity about this situation and no reassurances of forgiveness or salvation, no resolved grief towards her father. She has this, this person who complements her and loves her and makes her feel alive. She has this, and it is enough. 

It is enough when they get in the carriage and he sits next to her instead of across from her, pulling her close to his side and resting his cheek against the top of her head. It is enough when he draws her a bath and waits like a gentleman two rooms away while she dresses herself in a much simpler dress and combs her hair up into something that resembles a style away from her face. It is enough when she returns to the kitchen and there is a handsome young man waiting at her breakfast table with a bouquet of forget-me-nots. They have become her favorite flowers of late, perhaps because she associates them with Raoul. Because they are the exact color of his eyes when he wakes first thing in the morning—another she has noted for her catalogue—and because she has never forgotten him. He is her forget-me-not, standing there with a bouquet of flowers and insistent on loving her despite how hard things have gotten. 

“Good morning,” she smiles and takes the flowers, presses a kiss to his lips. “Again.” 

“Happy birthday,” he says. 

They sit for breakfast and she even finds it in her to eat some of her yogurt—this is a special day, after all—and pick at the plate of berries. The shadow of Gustave and the Phantom hangs over them—this day is always going to be something like that, probably—but they can breathe underneath it and that is enough. 

“What do you want to do today?” Raoul says. 

Christine gazes outside. The drizzle from earlier has turned into a torrential downpour, now, turning her windows into watercolor paintings of Paris and the streets into little rivers. 

“Nothing,” she says, turns to smile at him. “I don’t want to do anything. Is that strange? I just want to spend it with you.” 

He blushes a deep and beautiful rose and looks down into his coffee, as if shocked or flattered that she’d want to spend her birthday with him. As if he hasn’t been the whole reason she’s resolved herself to a life of happier memories, if only she can figure out how to get it. As if she doesn’t love him more than her own life. “I would be happy to spend it with you, my love,” he says. 

It is a quiet day. Raoul begs— _begs—_ Philippe to leave them alone for a few hours. Christine cannot imagine what Raoul traded for this privilege—a week of babysitting his monstrous nephews, his attendance at the next boy’s club meeting, as he calls them, his cooperation regarding Caroline’s upcoming garden party, really it could be any number of things that Raoul hates to do—but Christine cherishes it more than any gift he could ever give her. His company is the greatest gift, his wandering kisses trailed lazily across her collarbones and her jaw, his hands tangling in her hair, his heart beating under the layers of his clothes loud enough that she can hear it. Then again, she would be able to hear his heart anywhere. Raoul tosses aside his waistcoat, lets her rest her feet on his lap and rubs them while she reads aloud from _Madame Bovary,_ even doing voices he way he had loved when she told stories by the fire in their youth. He tells her more about his days in the navy, the years before and between their meetings, all the places he will take her one day. She laughs as she sits on his lap and tweaks his nose when he reminds her of her twelfth birthday—the only other birthday she has spent with him—wherein she lost her brand new scarf to the waves and he had run into the freezing cold ocean to fetch it, earning him the whipping of his life at his mother’s discovery of this tomfoolery and a cold that lasted a week. He puckers his lips, makes a loving quip about always being her knight in shining armor, squeezes her waist in the way he knows will make her laugh.

He is the greatest gift she’s ever received. 

“I have something for you,” he says after lunch. 

“Raoul, I told you. I don’t need anything. You are enough.” 

“It’s nothing so much,” he says. “Besides, don’t even think of it as a gift. Think of it as me returning something long lost.” 

She narrows her eyes but accepts the little parcel that he sets on her lap. His eyes are glued to her hands as she undoes the bow—blue like his eyes in the dull light of her dressing room, sloppily tied in a way that makes her suspect he did it himself, which makes it all the more special—and lets him tie the ribbon around her wrist. She unfolds the paper and a gasp that she genuinely cannot help falls out of her lips as she stares at that very scarf in her lap. 

It looks like new, but she is certain that it is the scarf because there is a tiny little hole in the end where she had burnt it with a match. She had been so upset when that happened, but now she is so happy because she knows it is _the_ scarf. The cashmere is still brilliant red and as soft to the touch as it had been when she had lost it all those years ago, the embroidered flowers in a slightly lighter shade of red still look like they could come to life. Not even the saltwater had stained it too much—or Raoul knew an _excellent_ launderer—and Christine is taken aback to sudden tears. He has no idea. He has no idea what he has given her. It is all very simple, he has given her back her youth. He has given her back the rest of her life. He has given her back her freedom, her choice, her light, he has given her all this and continues to give with every breath because it is who he is. How did she ever deserve this? She picks up the scarf, holds it in her hands, lets the fabric run over her fingers and stares at it in amazement because she had loved this scarf so much and thought she lost it forever. But Raoul is a finder of things thought lost forever, because she thought she had lost him, too, before he burst back into her life, and she had certainly lost herself before he had come along and shown her that that wasn’t the case, that she had a life worth living and was brave enough to face this monster, that she didn’t have to do it alone. 

She turns to thank Raoul, to thank him for everything— _everything_ —but he is staring at her in bewonderment or bewilderment or simple awe, perhaps, and then he is seizing her face and pressing his lips to hers before she can even say anything. 

“I love you so much,” he says, barely pulling away. He buries his hands in her hair and she throws her arms around his neck, pulling him flush against her. “I love you so much it is impossible.” 

She is smiling so wide while she kisses him, pulls his face as close as she can, covers his cheeks in her kisses. Either he pushes or she pulls but somehow they end up horizontal, him resting on top of her on the sofa, both laughing breathlessly as she pulls on his hair, as he kisses her neck, lets his fingers explore the bodice of her dress as she unbuttons his shirt. They are aware that Philippe is only downstairs, could be back at any moment to prevent exactly this from happening, but they are children and they are in love so it doesn’t matter. Raoul draws her thoughts back to him as he grins roguishly down at her, his hands resting on either side of her head, and leans down to press another kiss to her lips. They won’t go farther than this, they’ve already established that their wedding night will be special for so many reasons, but this is enough. It is so enough. 

“Where did you find it?” Christine asks, eventually, as Raoul is lying across the sofa, his head resting in her lap so she can comb through his hair with her fingers and his feet dangling off the arm. 

“The attic,” Raoul says. His eyes are closed but he is smiling, drawing circles on her knee through the fabric of her dress. “Exactly where you left it.” 

Of course. The attic, exactly where she left it. Exactly where she left so many things she never thought she might have again, but now are spread before her, hers for the taking. If she feels anything other than joy in this moment, it is something like euphoria, ecstasy, bliss, some long forgotten synonym for happiness that shouldn’t even be attainable, not for her, not for everything, but somehow is. It has been so long since her birthday has been something other than a bitter thing, but suddenly it tastes incredibly sweet.

 

* * *

  

His absence grows more fearsome than his presence, over time. It is a stark reminder that he is waiting, in the wings, in the shadows, in the recesses of her mind. What he is waiting for, she does not know, but while everybody else seems to grow calmer, more at ease, surer that the danger has passed the longer it goes without word from him, she is sure that things are only getting worse. She is consumed by thoughts of him, some sort of wicked and twisted desire to know, to be privy once again to the thoughts of her Angel. Sometimes she finds herself missing the calm he brings, yearning for his lullaby, wondering after his face, whether it was all really as terrible as she remembers.

It seems she is caught again in the clutches of this dark Angel who is not an angel, this Ghost who is not a ghost, this man who is more a mystery, this secret strange and sinister. It is terribly unfair that she is not even at the opera and is still consumed by fear and temptation and _want_ , that she has spent so many months being happy and carefree and reveling in her youth and her love, only to be thrust back into this endless game of waiting and wondering when he will surface, when he will make his move.

This is a very strange thing. The opera returned to production at the end of September, and it is now November and there has been no word. No Ghostly apparitions, no threatening notes, no missing costumes or broken props. It is altogether unsettling. Raoul brings her word from the opera every week as he goes to have business meetings with the Managers; she cannot imagine what they discuss, given his feelings towards them, but things have been patched up between Monsieur Firmin and Raoul about as well as could be expected, and Louis Betancourt is constantly bringing Raoul letters about matters that require his presence. Christine half thinks they are trying to get him to force her hand, and all these urgent matters are really down to her, but each time he comes back rolling his eyes about the color of a new curtain and whether or not to present _Don Giovanni_ next season, as if Raoul himself has any strong opinions on the matter. 

“Obscene amounts of money,” he says, squinting at his ledger one evening. “This is ridiculous.” 

Philippe sighs. “You know why they’re doing this–”

“Because they enjoy seeing me suffer?”

“—I think the question is rather why you accommodate it,” he finishes, evenly, as if Raoul had not interrupted. 

“Because I am a glutton for punishment? Because I fancy myself a Maecenas, devoted to the arts?” Raoul folds his arms on the table and puts his head on them, back rising and falling in an exaggerated sigh. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Philippe says, turning the page in his book. “And if you keep squinting at your miserable handwriting in the dark, you’ll ruin your eyes before you’re thirty. Light another lamp.”

Raoul lifts his head enough to give him a withering look before returning it to his arms. “You could show some pity, brother,” he says, voice muffled. “Or give me some advice.” 

“I did give you advice,” Philippe says. “I told you to light another lamp. And, if pity were what I thought you needed, I’d give it to you. However, what you need is to remember that you cannot be held hostage by the demands of some pompous managers. Grow a pair and learn to say no.” He closes his book with a final _thwack_ and puts it on the table. “I’ll be having a drink in the salon, if anyone cares to join me.” 

Christine looks up from her own book as he sees himself out, and then glances at Raoul. He has turned his head to gaze at her, seated in the drawing room on one of the big plushy chairs. He sits up in his chair as she rises and crosses to him, leaning back and tilting his head up towards her as she comes to rest behind him, her hands upon her shoulders. 

“What has you so upset, my love?” she asks, leaning around his head to glance at the ledger. 

“Writing cheques is terrible work,” Raoul declares. “I’d much rather be a farmer.” 

Christine laughs and straightens, letting her hands run back up over his chest. “I don’t think you would,” she says, pressing an upside down kiss to his pouting lips. “It would make your back ache something dreadful.” 

He sighs dramatically again, his breath rustling the stray hairs that fall around her face. “This is turning out to be much more of an ordeal than I ever anticipated.” 

“That, my dear, is on you,” Christine says. “Everything at the opera is an ordeal. I’m not surprised the management works that way too.” 

“ _This_ much of an ordeal?” 

Christine considers this. “Perhaps not this much. But certainly an ordeal. Artists can’t help but be dramatic.” 

Raoul rolls his eyes. “André and Firmin hardly qualify as ‘artists.’ Have you seen this?” He rifles through the paper on the table and passes her an envelope of thick paper, with the words _Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny_ obnoxiously gilded across the front. Christine removes an equally ostentatious invitation from the envelope—gaudy colors and more ridiculously embossed lettering that is terribly difficult to read—cordially requesting the recipient’s attendance at a _Bal Masque_ on New Year’s Eve. Christine considers the invitation—the implicit expectation of her _own_ attendance—and looks back to Raoul, who still has his head tilted backwards and is staring at her with wide blue eyes. “We don’t have to go,” he says, reading the expression on her face. 

“Of course we do,” she sighs. “And we will.” 

Raoul closes his eyes again and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have a headache.” 

“It’s because you’ve been doing all this in the dark,” Christine says, struggling to keep a straight face. “Why don’t you light another lamp?” 

“You are terrible to me,” Raoul says, glaring weakly at her. “Where is your compassion? My eyes are withering from this drudgery, and all you have to say is ‘why don’t you light another lamp?’” 

“What would you like me to say?” she hums, brushing some hair away from his eyes. 

“What about: ‘Oh, my darling Raoul, I cannot believe the whims of those wicked managers are ruining your eyes! You’re my hero.’ Something like that would be rather nice, I think.” 

“Technically, my darling Raoul, I think it is your refusal to light another lamp that is ruining your eyes.” 

He places his hand on his heart in mock-hurt. “I’ll need to wear glasses, at this rate! Then how will you like me?”

“Just as much as I like you now, I would think,” she says. She comes around to the side of his chair and takes his hands, tugging him to his feet and leading him to the sofa. “Leave it for a little bit. Sit with me. Before your eyes fall out of your skull.” 

He does—he is powerless to resist her, always—and collapses on the sofa with as much drama as she had expected. 

“How much are the other patrons contributing?” she asks, guiding his head to rest in her lap. He tucks his face against her stomach, his arms wrapping loosely around her waist. 

“Not enough, that’s for damn sure,” he mumbles. 

“You could pull out,” she muses. 

He sighs. “I don’t think it’s so simple. We have an agreement—I am to fund opera-related engagements for a year. I didn’t expect that to include a new chandelier, or this ridiculous Masquerade Ball, but here we are.”

“I think,” Christine says, “that they are taking advantage of your kindness.”

“Kindness!” Raoul snorts. “This is a matter of business, not kindness.”

Christine taps him so that he rolls over and looks at her. She leans over his face, her hair falling down in a curtain. “You are too kind,” she says, sternly. “It is going to be the death of you if you don’t learn to say no to their demands. This can’t honestly be making you happy.” 

“No,” Raoul says, muffled. “It’s not. And I don’t think it’s doing the opera much good, either. They just enjoy seeing me squirm.” 

“Then you ought to speak up. Put your foot down. Remind them that your patronage is not something to be used for foolish desires, but for matters that better the opera.” 

Raoul sighs. “You are so wise, Little Lotte. How did you get so wise?” 

It is Christine’s turn to sigh, and she ghosts her fingers along his jaw, his chin, over his cheekbones. “I have lived a lot of life,” she says. 

“More than you should have, at this age,” Raoul says, catching her hand in his and pressing it to his lips. He loves to kiss her fingers. “We are both going to have gray hair before we are forty, at this rate.” 

“You might look rather handsome with gray hair,”  Christine muses, combing her fingers through those sandy locks again.

“I hope one day you’ll be around to see it,” he says. The declaration is simple, but it still makes her breath catch in her lungs. A lifetime together. 

They have been dancing around the subject of an engagement for weeks. It is expected of and by both of them, at least eventually, that much they can be certain of. Christine knows that Philippe has much to say on the matter, though she is not sure _what_ exactly it is, and that he has been pressuring Raoul one way or another recently. The problem is, Raoul tends to do the exact opposite of whatever Philippe pressures him to do, and so Christine is rather unsure about how they are to proceed. Under normal circumstances, Raoul would be expected to wait at least another six months before asking her father’s blessing for her hand in marriage. The one thing that everyone can seem to agree on, though, is that their circumstances are anything but normal. That does not shed any light on what must happen next. They are dreadfully young, the both of them, and to her knowledge Raoul has never even courted another woman before, and _she_ has certainly not had another suitor. Still, she knows in her heart without any doubt or hesitation at all that he is the one she will spend the rest of her days with. She has never loved anyone the way she loves Raoul, so freely and fully that it makes her heart ache in the most delicious way. 

She cannot decide, though, whether she wants to draw out their courtship or not. She cannot pretend that the prospect of becoming a Vicomtesse does not terrify her. There have been whispers, though Raoul has made it clear that he does not care about them, of the fittingness of their relationship. The ladies Caroline often has over for tea send Christine sneering looks, question her about her job at the opera, make snide comments about chorus girls and women who earn their own wages, and Christine knows that they go home and tell their own young, newly debuted daughters that the Vicomte is still very much an eligible bachelor. It does not make her jealous, the way these beautiful, young, rich things gaze at Raoul with simpering looks and at her like she is a particularly ugly toad, because she knows that at the end of the day she is the only one for whom Raoul has any care at all. She would be a fool not to see how much he loves her, when it is written in everything he does. He has made sure of that, and it makes her love them more. 

Still, though the prospect of her leaving the opera for good grows greater and greater every day as the conditions of the Managers’ return offer weigh on her mind, she is not sure she is ready to say goodbye entirely. She misses performing, even if she is still paralyzed whenever she tries to sing. She misses the way the lights feel on her skin, the way her voice feels in her throat, the way she can see the faces in the very first row burn with emotion for the story. It is a powerful thing, to be a storyteller, to bring to life the fantastic once more, to create worlds and watch them fall. She had found a home at the opera. It is only a shame how sinister everything had become. 

She sighs as her thoughts turn to the opera, the way they always do, and decides she does not want to go there at this particular moment. Not with Raoul, nearly asleep on her lap as she plays with his hair, not in the warm light of the suite at _La Parisienne,_ not when the world outside is so far from this beautiful thing they share. 

“What shall we wear to this Masquerade Ball?” Christine asks. 

“I’m dressing up as a bumbling idiot,” Raoul says, “do you think Monsieur Firmin will lend me that wretched puce waistcoat he has?” 

Christine snorts and swats at Raoul’s stomach with her free hand. “You’re a bully,” she says, prodding his side so that he squirms. 

“I’m _right._ ” 

“That does not make you any less of a bully.” 

“You love me,” he says.

“It is my cross to bear,” Christine teases, sighing dramatically. “Perhaps I might go as a princess.” 

“You are already my princess.”

“That was terribly corny.” 

“Again, you love me.”

“Again, my cross to bear.”

“Hmm,” Raoul says, nuzzling his face against her lap. She drags her nails over his scalp and swears she catches him purring. “I’m glad you bear it.” 

“I do it gladly,” she says, leaning down to press a kiss behind his ear.

There are so many decisions to be made, and that will be the rest of their lives. However, none of them really seem to matter so much, not when they will be engaged or what they will wear to this party or even whether or not Christine wants to return to the opera house. All that matters is that they will make these decisions together, in tandem. If that is not enough, then she does not know the meaning of the word.

 

* * *

 

His presence had always been palpable in the opera house, since before she even knew who he was. Reflecting on her years there—four, now—it seems that some part of her had always been connected to him, long before he came to her in the chapel on that night. Watching her, knowing her, waiting for her, he had collected the bits and pieces of her until he had enough to make her whole for him. It was as if he already knew her most intimately before she even surrendered herself to him in the lair, before she even fell under his spell. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to jump headfirst into the belief that he was real, heaven sent, the Angel of Music. 

The prospect of returning is a formidable one, at best. Even the thought of stepping through the door makes Christine quiet and withdrawn. She does not want to attend so many engagements, is reserved in conversations, needs to sort through her thoughts and feelings and make some sort of decision before she runs out of time. There are so many considerations Christine must take in the days leading up to the Masquerade Ball. Some up-and-coming costume designer has begged her to wear his dress and she has agreed, so that’s _that_ taken care of, though she is not entirely sure what she agreed to wear. Raoul insists that he is taking extra precautions for her safety, though he does not think the Ghost will have the nerve to show up there, in a crowded room full of masks and dresses and light, security everywhere. He is certain that the worst is done and gone. Christine knows that to be wrong, knows that the worst must still be to come.

This is a matter of disagreement between the two of them. Raoul firmly wants this Ghost nonsense to be in the past, long forgotten so that they can move on with their lives, but Christine thinks he is being a fool to think this is over, and tells him as much. Privately, she suspects he still does not entirely believe her, won’t until he sees with his own two eyes what she has been talking about. By which point, of course, it will be too late.

“I’ll have guards at every entrance,” he says, as if this will solve anything.

“He won’t come through a door,” Christine replies, without looking up from her book.

“He won’t come at _all,_ if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Hmm.”

“Perhaps he is dead.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?” he whirls to face her, looking frustrated and angry and upset. The Phantom always brings out the worst in him, some anger-fueled need for vengeance or dominance, something strange and masculine that annoys Christine. “Why do you insist upon his life?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Raoul,” she sighs, closing her book and standing. She brushes by him, resting a hand briefly upon his shoulder. “Let’s not argue anymore.”

He always deflates, always spends another hour chewing on the inside of his cheek, thinking through plans and likelihoods and uttering reassurances that the Phantom will not dare. Christine always sighs and lets him, does not point out that there is _nothing_ the Phantom will not dare. It is better that he think all these things through around her, where she can tell him what is ridiculous and what is less ridiculous, than in his study at home, where god only knows what half-baked ideas will come to his head. Still, she is powerless to convince him that the danger is not past, that she _knows_ her Angel and knows that he is unlikely to resist such an event, an entrance so grand as this. She is terrified, but a small part of her is strangely thrilled. She is curious. 

So it is in a whirlwind of emotions—chief among them fear and anticipation—that she wakes on the morning of December thirty-first. It is gray outside, the sky is thick with clouds and the sun is making a valiant effort to stream through her window, but to little success. Christine rolls over in the impossibly soft bed and buries her face in the pillows. She can hear the sounds of someone—her attendant, probably—clattering around in the kitchen, and she groans when she hears the noise get closer to her door. As often, she did not sleep well last night,  and would cherish a lazy hour spent in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. 

To her great surprise, though, it is not her attendant who opens the door with her usual cheerful greeting and goes to open the curtains, but Raoul, making a great deal of noise as he tries not to spill a tray bearing two cups and a plate of fruit and bread on it. He _never_ steps inside her bedroom. Something must be wrong. 

“Sorry,” he grimaces and sets the tray down as quietly as he can on her bedside table. “I tried to be quiet.” 

“You are as quiet as a bull in a china shop,” Christine declares, burrowing further into the blankets. “What are you doing here?” 

“How kind and lovely you are when you first wake, my darling,” he laughs, and she can feel him standing over her. “I thought that you might want a friendlier face to wake you today. Won’t you let me see your beautiful face?”

She pulls the blankets away just enough to glare at him with one eye. “Why are you so chipper so early in the morning?”

“I have so much to be happy about,” he says, tugging at her blankets a little more so he can see her face properly. 

“Hmm,” Christine says, reaching a hand out for him to clasp. He catches it, brings it to his lips, and tries to pull her into a sitting position. “Like what?”

“A new year,” he says. “I have always loved the feeling of a fresh start. And I could not be happier to start it with the love of my life.” 

Christine laughs and pulls him down while he is absorbed in gazing at her and he loses his balance, toppling onto the bed and rolling next to her. “Good answer,” she says, leaning over to devour him with a kiss. They go on like this, tea and coffee forgotten on her bedside table, nestled in this little haven of blankets, tucked in one another’s embrace. 

“I will never get tired of this,” Christine declares, some minutes or hours or days or years later as she sits with her back against the headboard, Raoul lying between her legs with his head on her lap. 

“Of what?” he asks. He knows. He likes to hear her say it. 

“Of you.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, Christine sips her tea—now cold, but still perfectly made—and rests her head back, letting her eyes drift shut. How easy it is to forget that anything other than them exists. How easy it is to smile when she remembers that she could have this, if she wants, every day for the rest of her life. What a delightful prospect. She has always thought that Raoul might be a mind-reader, he always knows exactly what she needs to soothe away some of the aches and worries of the day before. He had risked Philippe’s wrath—an altogether more frightening prospect than life and limb, frankly—to sneak into her room this morning, when he knew she would be dreading the evening’s events. It is a nice reminder that whatever happens tonight, she will always have him.

“Marry me,” he says, into the blue, and her eyes fly open. She almost chokes on her tea. 

“What?” she asks, voice a little hoarse. 

“Marry me,” Raoul says again, and then _his_ eyes fly open and he looks horrified with himself. He rolls off her and springs off the bed, nearly causing her to spill her tea, and hurries to go rifle through his coat, which had been tossed on the ground earlier. “Wait– Hold on– I didn’t mean to–” 

“You didn’t _mean_ to?” 

“No! That’s not what I meant! I didn’t mean to propose to you like _this!”_  

“But you did _mean_ to propose to me?”

“Yes, of course I _meant_ to propose to you—dammit, where is it?—only I meant to propose to you in a much nicer setting, perhaps at dinner, or the Ball tonight, somewhere with candles and ambience and where I’m at least wearing _shoes,_ and not in bed—Aha! I’ve found it.” He turns around, breathless, hair a mess and shirt undone—her favorite look on him, ever—those blue eyes the color of a calm lake in midsummer, despite his frazzled energy. 

“Found what?” she says, faintly, but she thinks she knows. She does not stop him as he reaches for her hands and pulls her to the edge of the bed, does not stop him as he sinks to one knee and smiles up at her, as he opens a little box that contains the most beautiful ring she’s ever seen, lovely and elegant with a ruby set in the center, surrounded by tiny diamonds that sparkle like stars, set into a lovely rose gold band cut with flowers and vines. Does not stop the tears as they prick in the corners of her eyes. 

“I had a whole speech planned,” he says, “but I’m not sure it’s really necessary.” She waves him forward with a hand, unable to say anything for fear of bursting into tears. “I’ll just suffice to say that I love you. I love you with my whole heart, my whole life, more than I’ve ever loved anyone before and more than I’ll ever love anyone in the future. You came back into my life and it was like… the world came to life around me again. I didn’t know I had been looking for you until I found you, but now that I have, I never want to see my world without you in it. I need you with me, now and always, for the rest of my life. Would you please make me the happiest man on earth, and do me the honor of marrying me?”

Now she is actually crying, fully crying, tears pouring down her face crying as she stares at him, kneeling, at the ring, beautiful, at her future. All her reservations are swept aside, and she is not even really that surprised. She had known she’d say yes, but had thought it would trouble her. Had thought that her fear of the Phantom, fear of becoming a Vicomtesse, fear of the unknown in general would make this choice difficult. Only it’s not, and she really shouldn’t be so shocked, because Raoul has always made her bold. He has always encouraged her to shed her fears, whether they be fears of climbing on top of the shed in his backyard when they were young or fears of plunging forward into the future. Just knowing that he will always be there—one love, one lifetime, a soft place to fall—no matter what happens is enough. It is so enough. 

“Christine?” he asks, and she comes back to the present. He is looking at her with worry—actual _worry,_ as if he has any reason for it—in his eyes. He goes to close the box, to stand and take her hands and perhaps reassure her that he expects nothing of her, will wait forever if she wants, will stand not being married if that is what will make her happy. He’s so _stupid_ sometimes is all she can think as she throws herself off the bed and sends him back onto the floor with a _whumph,_ knocking the box out of his hands as he hurries to catch her before she hurts herself. 

“Yes,” she says, kissing him and laughing. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes today and yes tomorrow, yes every day for the rest of our lives. _Yes._ ” 

He is beaming now too—what a beautiful sight, him beaming on the floor beneath her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her knees on either side of his hips—smiling like she’s given him the whole world. He doesn’t know— _he can’t_ —how much she loves him. She can’t put it into words. 

“Brilliant,” he says, beaming. “I’m so sorry– I really did mean for this to be more romantic. I’ve been carrying the ring around for weeks, waiting for the right moment, I bought it the day after I met you again, actually, but nothing has seemed right and Philippe has been encouraging me to wait only I don’t really want to wait because I love you, and the sooner we are done with this courtship nonsense the better so that I can wake up to you every morning and never have to abide by these asinine rules again I will–” 

“Raoul,” Christine laughs, cutting him off with a kiss. “You’re rambling.” 

“I just love you,” he sighs, nuzzling his face to her neck. “So much.” 

“The ring!” she says, looking around and spotting the box on the floor some few feet away from them, but he ignores her, rolling over so he can pin her to the ground and kiss her face a million times. 

“Have you any _idea,_ ” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss, like she had done all those months ago on the rooftop, “how much I love you?”

“Not nearly as much as I love you,” she sighs, laughing as his kisses drift across her neck. He needs to shave again.

“Nonsense,” he says. “So much I fear I might burst.” 

“The rest of our lives, Raoul,” she sighs. “Can you imagine that?”

“All I want is you, Christine,” he says. “Just you, every morning and every night, to tell me about your day at dinner and to read to me by the fire, to hold my hand when I am scared and to remind me that everything will be okay. To share your life with me.” In the middle of his very heartfelt declaration there is a loud clattering from the kitchen. “And to not have my brother watching over us at every moment,” he grumbles, dropping his head to rest upon her collarbone. 

“Raoul!” calls Philippe from the kitchen. “I _know_ you aren’t in Miss Daaé’s bedroom, where I expressly forbade you from going this morning when you left the house.” 

“Get off,” Christine whispers, struggling to hide her laughter. “Before Philippe wallops you.” 

“Fine.” Raoul groans but stands, pulling her to her feet and buttoning his shirt in an attempt to look slightly less guilty of whatever it is Philippe has assumed they were doing. “If only because I do not think my ass could take another beating,” he says, brushing off his trousers. “It has not recovered from when I snuck into your room in September.” 

“That’s a shame,” Christine says, donning her dressing gown and slippers. “It’s your best asset.” 

Raoul glares at her, mouth open, pretending to be scandalized. “Miss Daaé!” he gasps. “How dare you objectify me so?” 

She rolls her eyes and steers him out the room despite his protests, into Philippe’s waiting disapproval. 

“I should have known,” Philippe says, in a tone that suggests he most certainly knew. “Have either of you bothered to eat breakfast yet?” 

“Yes,” Christine says, at the same time as Raoul says, “No.” 

Philippe rolls his eyes. “Nightmares, the both of you are. I don’t suppose either of you have remembered that we all have an engagement to attend tonight? And Raoul, that you are expected at the costumer’s in an hour to pick up your attire?”

 “I remember,” Raoul says, in a tone that suggest he most certainly did not remember. “On the Rue Scribe. I’ll be there.” 

“You better, or you’ll be attending tonight’s festivities in the nude.” Christine snickers and Raoul swats at her under the table. “Monsieur Delacourt will be here at three, Miss Daaé, to oversee the final touches on your dress.” 

“Thank you, Philippe,” Christine nods. She and Raoul share a look, hide their smiles.

“What?” Philippe asks.

“Nothing,” they both say. 

“Where’s the ring?” Philippe asks. Mind reading, apparently, runs in the family. Or they are simply blushing too much to be entirely innocent. 

“What?” Raoul says, though he is smiling, unable to contain himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You are both terrible liars,” Philippe says. “At any rate, congratulations. I’m very happy for you both.” 

Christine knows he means it, but she also knows that it doesn’t matter. It does not matter what anyone else thinks, just her and Raoul, them against the rest of the world forever. It does not matter that as the day goes on her stomach grows heavy with dread and she is unable to eat lunch or dinner, does not matter that the dress is the most lovely, ethereal garment but still makes her nervous, does not matter that despite the ring in the box on her vanity and how much she loves Raoul, she cannot bring herself to speak the word “engaged” aloud for fear that someone will hear. Things are fine in the light of day, but as night falls her demons come out to play. It _does_ matter, she knows this deep down, less deep than she wishes, what one person thinks. It matters so much. She stares at the ring every time it is in her sight—it is such a beautiful thing—but she cannot bring herself to put it on her finger. It is like making and breaking a promise all in one, it is putting all of them in terrible danger, even if they don’t see that. She is angry, somewhere, dimly, because it’s not fair. Not fair that she loves Raoul and has no reservations about spending the rest of her life with him, but can’t bring herself to wear this lovely and beautiful and thoughtful ring—and it is _so_ thoughtful, so evident that he carefully picked out every detail, the ruby matching the red of her scarf, the rose gold to compliment her skin, that romantic fool—upon her finger. 

As she slips the ring onto a chain and drapes it over her neck instead, nestling the ring against her bosom beneath the fabric of her dress, she cannot help but feel that she is betraying someone by giving in to this fear. She can’t decide who. 

Raoul looks dashing, dressed as a hussar soldier. His hair has been—miraculously—combed back and perfectly styled, and his costume fits him perfectly. The gold fastenings catch the firelight and the half-cape of his jacket allows her a glimpse of the fine tailoring of his trousers. He is wearing a black mask across his eyes, obscuring his freckles from view but leaving the rest of his face on view. It is not as if she would ever know that it is not him, though, she would recognize him anywhere in anything. He is waiting in her drawing room, a hand resting on the mantle as he stares into the fire, and she cannot help but take a second to admire the fine cut of his body. He feels her watching her and looks up and turns, holding his arms out for her appraisal. 

“Do I pass, my love?” he asks. 

“With flying colors,” she says, emerging into the flickering light of the drawing room. 

“My,” he whispers, momentarily struck dumb. “You look beautiful.” 

She blushes, turns to hide her face, but he swoops in, catching her chin in his hand and turning it back to face him. Up close his eyes are the color of lapis lazuli in the lamplight. He presses a kiss to her lips, careful not to smudge the work of her makeup, and holds her back so he can admire her whole dress. 

It is truly a lovely thing, pinks and purples and blues, dotted with gemstones that look like stars. The corset under the bodice has cinched her waist something awful—she only wishes she could breathe a little better—but the effect is quite nice with the flaring of the skirt around her hips. The neckline swoops down a little more than is proper for anything other than a Masquerade Ball, and leaves her shoulders and collarbones bare. It is far shorter than is proper, too, only falling to her calves, and she is wearing heeled silver boots that raise her to Raoul’s shoulder. Monsieur Delacourt even fashioned a beautiful crown that rests atop her curls now, bearing silver moons and stars. She has a silver mask, too, that she can hold in her hand rather than strap to her face—she had expressly forbidden anything she could not easily discard—but it is lying on her vanity. She is unsure about the whole thing, personally thinks that the decision to host a masquerade ball, of all things, is rather daring on the part of the Managers, but it is too late for any of that. She will still revel in this dress, in her handsome fiancé— _fiancé!—_ and try to enjoy her night, at any rate. She looks—feels—like a goddess, she is young, she is in love. There is nothing that could go wrong—and if she tells herself that enough times, it might be true. 

“Is that a calf I see?” Raoul says when he finishes his assessment of her outfit, his hand on his heart in mock-shock. “Miss Daaé! It’s hardly proper!”

“Oh, hush,” Christine blushes, but he is in full on dramatics now and she can’t help but laugh as he pretends to swoon, a hand on his forehead as he collapses onto the sofa. 

“You’ve incapacitated me with your bare flesh,” Raoul sighs. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go without me, my dear.” 

“Get up,” Christine laughs, taking his hands and tugging on them. “We’ll be late.” 

“I told you, I’ve been incapacitated!” 

“You are absurd.” 

“Haven’t you heard the fairy tales, Little Lotte?” Raoul muses, opening one eye to squint at her. “You awaken a sleeping beauty with true love’s kiss, if I remember correctly.” 

Christine snorts. “I have seen you sleeping. You are hardly a beauty.” This is a lie, of course, but how she loves to tease him. 

“You wound me!” he declares. “Now I shall never be able to attend this ball, not when I know my fiancée thinks such wicked thoughts.” 

Christine rolls her eyes but leans down to press a kiss to his lips nonetheless. The word _fiancée_ sends a pleasant shudder through her heart. “Aren’t you supposed to be the prince charming?”

“You have never needed my saving,” Raoul reminds her. “But if it would make you happy, then I will of course be your prince charming.” He sweeps an arm around her waist, pulls her onto the sofa and close to him again to lavish attention on her bare shoulders. His fingers sweep across the chain around her neck and he tugs the ring out from her dress, staring at it _,_ puzzled. “Isn’t it customary to wear the ring on your _finger,_ rather than around your neck?” he asks. 

Christine hesitates, fidgets with her hands in her lap. “I–” 

“Do you not like it?” he asks, horrified. “We can change it, of course, find something right–” 

“No!” Christine yelps, and he sinks back, relieved. “It is not that I do not like it at all. I love it. It is the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen.”

“Then why are you hiding it?” Raoul asks. “Why not wear it on your finger, where everyone can see?” 

“I… I’m not ready for everyone to see,” she says. “Not yet.” 

Raoul tilts his head, more confused than ever. “Christine, I don’t understand.” 

“You will,” she says. “I promise, I’ll help you to understand. But tonight… I’d rather just have it here. Have it be our secret.” 

Raoul purses his lips, but he is not in the habit of denying her anything and nor is he in the mood to argue tonight, apparently. “Alright.” 

“Thank you,” she sighs. 

“Might I make one request, though?”

“Anything,” Christine says. 

“Could you wear it on a shorter chain? So that it might at least be visible to me, rather than tucked into your dress?” 

Christine purses her own lips as she considers this, but decides it’s the very least she can do. If she is determined not to wear it on her finger—where it _belongs_ —then she will at least do him this small favor of allowing him to see it on her chest. She fetches a shorter chain from her vanity and lets Raoul fasten it around her neck, sweeping her hair aside and pressing a kiss to the spot on her shoulder that he has learned she loves. The ring comes to rest on her breastbone, just above the neckline of her dress, where Raoul can see it but it is not so immediately visible for what it is as it would be on her finger. 

“Shall we, my love?” he murmurs. “Our carriage awaits.” 

“Wait,” she says, reaching up to his face and fitting her fingers under the mask. She lifts it from his skin, her fingers brushing his cheekbones, and over his head, accidentally dislodging her favorite little curl from his coif so that it falls back over his forehead. “I know it’s a Masquerade, but would you mind not wearing the mask?” 

He only smiles in response, presses a sweet kiss to her lips and settles her cloak over her shoulders. She thinks it all the time, it wanders across her mind in every waking hour: _What has she done to deserve him?_ She thinks it as he sits next to her in the carriage, hand intertwined with hers as the lights of Paris roll by and they draw nearer their destination, thinks it as her grip on his tightens as the opera house comes into view, splendidly lit and full of commotion, this it as he offers her his arm again and leads her into the fray. If she cannot do this like this, with him at her side, she will never be able to do it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [you're welcome](https://www.jamesallen.com/gemstone-rings/ruby-engagement-rings/0.75-carat-vintage-engagement-ring-1758093?cur=USD&km_source=google&km_medium=cpc&km_term=45900295847&km_campaign=821244139&km_keyword=&km_adid=194073682778&km_account=shoppingengagementgemstone&gclid=CjwKCAjw3azoBRAXEiwA-_64Ov6clNX5aNkUW5a3aIH-4TigPAHaThBZG0PiG_RsmdAax3XBFMEt5xoCwvIQAvD_BwE)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sexiest rendition of "why so silent?" is from the 2004 movie based solely on the fact that the phantom has a sword and his costume has a ridiculous train. listen the 2004 movie did us dirty in a lot of ways but the amount of swordplay?? excellent

She should have known. He had only ever shown her a certain flair for the dramatic, had only ever been a lover of things grand and tragic, a wearer of mystery and masks. She should have known that this damned Masquerade Ball would end in a disaster, should have known not to let her guard down, should have known that this would not end, not even for one night, not when she so willingly wandered back into his territory. Back into his territory with someone else’s ring around her neck.

In hindsight, there are, as always, a lot of things she should have known. That Raoul wouldn’t be able to resist telling people about their engagement, that silence wouldn’t have even made a difference in the long run, that the Phantom’s silence would not last forever and that things can always get worse. That she had been a fool to think herself free, because she had stolen six blissful months of Raoul’s life and conned an engagement from him when she had been marked from the very beginning. That her future has only ever belonged to the Phantom. 

Part of the problem is that she _did_ know. She knew it all along and still she cast aside her worries and her doubts, threw away the cloak of fear and allowed herself to go along for the ride, to dare to enjoy herself. She had wanted a night of fun, of revelry, just one night to feel like every other beautiful young thing with a handsome fiancé, to enjoy her life genuinely. Is that so much to ask? Apparently it is, but that does not shock her so much. It has been this way for years now. She knows the general rules, knows at least the vague idea of the game, knows enough to know to not be so fucking reckless. To not parade her love in her Angel's face, like a selfish, foolish little girl. As always, part of this mess was caused by her own damned stupidity, and there is no one to fault for that other than herself. 

“Promise me you won’t make a fuss,” Christine says as their carriage joins the line waiting to reach the front of the opera house. “About our engagement.” 

“A fuss?” Raoul says. He is working hard not to be hurt, she can see it, and feels a twinge of guilt. “I would think such an occasion warranted a fuss.”

“Please, Raoul,” she says, taking his hands an searching his eyes. “Just for tonight.” 

“Fine,” he sighs, searching her face. “I promise. But you must promise me that you’ll explain everything in the morning.”

“I promise,” she whispers, hoping that he still requires her explanation in the morning. 

Things start out fine enough. The party is magical. As Raoul descends the steps of their carriage and helps her down, heads turn to look at them. He is particularly dashing and noticeable without his mask, smiling that coy, roguish smile she has come to associate with the persona he wears for high society parties. They process through the crowd of onlookers, the unlucky people who didn’t receive invitations but want to feel as if they are partaking in this night, the bitterly cold night full of whispers and music and clouds of cigarette smoke. 

The second she steps in the spectacle seizes her breath. If the opera house had seemed grand from the outside, all lit up and glowing, it is nothing compared to this Masquerade Ball on the inside. The foyer has been turned into a grand ballroom, with flowers and gilded decoration overflowing at every possible point, confetti already strewn across the ground, couples already strewn across the dancefloor. At the edges of the room there are covered tables surrounded by little groups of people—gossiping middle aged women who gaze at Christine and Raoul when they enter, a group of old men smoking cigars who try to catch Raoul’s eye and wave him over—and there are servers wandering through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes and little hors d’oeuvres. There is a large crowd by a makeshift bar by the staircase—terrible placement, Christine thinks, it is only so long until a drunk falls down the stairs—and she thinks she can even make out some of her old castmates in the crowd. This would be a night for them to come out in full force, performers of the very best variety, donning costumes and wigs and makeup so that rich patrons are none the wiser about who they are trying to bed. Christine’s Angel had made a point of preventing her from attending such gatherings as these before, and she can see why now. There is so much that could go wrong. The sea of paper faces, sequined fabric, whirling gowns and tottering heels, the cacophony of singing and laughter, raucous music and clinking glasses, it is all beautifully overwhelming and she stops for a minute to gaze at the remarkable wildness of it all.

“Oh,” she whispers, awestruck.

“What’s wrong?” Raoul whispers, frowning. 

“It’s just strange to be here,” she says, determined not to ruin this evening. “I feel like I don’t belong, I’m not a singer anymore. I’d never be invited to this if I didn’t work for the opera.” 

Raoul fingers the ring around her neck, letting it fall back to her breastbone with a reassuring thump. He swoops in for a kiss before she can protest about this public display of affection. “You are here as my fiancée tonight, Christine. You have every right to be here.” He reaches in for another kiss. 

“We’re in public,” she whispers, laughing softly. 

“It’s a party, Christine,” Raoul fake-chastises. “You must let yourself have a little fun. Besides, everyone is masked, you’re allowed to be a little daring.”

She cannot argue with his logic, or with the arm that he loops around her back instead of offering his arm, pulling her tight to his side and splaying his fingers across her waist in an intimate closeness she would usually never let him get away with outside the privacy of the suite at _La Parisienne._ But she will not begrudge her fiancé— _fiancé!_ —this act, not tonight, when they are only one couple in a sea of smiling faces, when they are hardly as bad as the two locking lips behind the potted trees by the door. She resolves herself to have a little fun as a passing waiter offers them champagne and she seizes two glasses—to Raoul’s surprise, neither of them are much of drinkers—and thrusts one into his hand. 

“To us,” she says, but they don’t have the chance to clink. 

“To you?” a voice says, and Christine whirls around, her hand instinctively going to cover the ring at her neck. A girl—is it a girl?—is standing behind them, hands on hips. The girl is wearing a daring costume; her tight black pants and calf-high boots accentuate slim legs, and a scarlet and gold embroidered waistcoat with a bustle and a white cravat fastened with a gemstone at her throat covers a black lace corset that is nearly see through. Atop a head of blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail, is a little top hat with a veil that covers the girl’s eyes. The overall effect is both handsome and beautiful, and there is only one person in the whole world who possesses the kind of daring required to wear it. 

“Meg!” Christine gasps. “How did you find us?” 

“Raoul is very visible without a mask at a Masquerade Ball,” she says. Christine sets aside her own mask and Meg adjusts her veil so they can all see each other properly.

“How _are_ you?”

“Dreadfully lonely without you,” Meg sighs, snagging a glass of champagne from a man with a tray floating by. “Why are we toasting to you two?” 

“We’re engaged,” Raoul says. Christine steps on his foot and he makes a stifled noise of pain. 

“Engaged!” Meg cries, and Christine quickly shushes her. “When?” 

“This morning,” Raoul says, glaring at Christine, who glares back.

“Congratulations!” Meg exclaims, throwing her arms around them both, seemingly impervious to the silent argument taking place between them. “That deserves more than a toast among friends, we ought to—”

“No!” Christine says. “Don’t tell anyone. Please. We’re keeping it a secret.”

“A secret?” Meg says, looking between the two of them. “What for?”

“For now,” Christine says, making it clear that her words invite no further discussion from either Meg or Raoul. 

“Alright, then,” Meg says, eyes narrowed. “Still, a toast to you.” 

They raise their glasses and clink, and Christine takes a big swallow of champagne. She has not had it before, but finds it is delightful. The bubbles are like swallowing fireflies, popping against her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and she hurriedly drinks the rest of her glass, letting the bubbles slide down her throat and burst to life against her ribcage. She is warm and happy, glowing from the light of their lovely secret and this beautiful Ball. Meg laughs, a sweet and beautiful sound that Christine had missed so much, and she twirls Christine so that her skirt flares around her legs. She seizes Raoul’s hand and pulls him towards the dancing and shocked, he complies, following her and taking her into his arms immediately into a fast paced waltz. 

The night is beautiful like a dream. The music is loud and beautiful and upbeat but the laughter is even louder, pitched like bells in the night. Sound cascades over her like a waterfall, drenching her in light and noise and the thrill of being out and being in love. She cannot help but bask in the glow as she and Raoul spin, laughing in each other’s arms, as Meg bumps Raoul out of the way with her hip and assumes the role of the man, twirling Christine around recklessly and Raoul stands to the side, overcome with laughter at their antics. Being young is such a beautiful thing, and what a fool she has been to waste it with fear and paranoia. There is nothing that could harm her, nothing that could ruin this, nothing that could come between her and her youth.

Raoul is an astonishingly good dancer, and she tells him as such. The liar had been insisting for weeks that he had two left feet, but it turns out that he is quite adept at waltzing and foxtrotting and even just unstructured dancing. He laughs and tips his head back, twirling her around and whirling her in his arms, sweeping her off her feet quite easily and spinning her over his head. It is the most fun she’s ever had and she laughs, bubbly and light like the champagne. It is so easy to forget their silent argument, to forget the danger of the situation, to forget that this is anything other than a beautiful night of merrymaking and fun. They stumble off the dance floor together after the next song, hand in hand as they find an unoccupied table. 

“You liar!” Christine gasps, accepting another glass of champagne from a waiter. “You can too dance!”

“Your perception is skewed, my love,” Raoul says, leaning forward and tweaking her nose. “You’re biased.” 

“Nonsense,” she says, turning her nose up jokingly. “I am an opera star, my dear, I’ve danced with the best, I know them when I see them.” 

He laughs and takes her by the waist again so they can make the rounds expected of a rich young couple, circling the dance floor and stopping by all of the aristocrats who have come out in full force tonight for a night of revelry. Raoul keeps a running commentary to her under his breath the entire time so that she is not so bored. 

“That’s Madame de la Grande Bouche, young new wife of Monsieur de la Grande Bouche,” he whispers, nodding politely at a girl who is not much older than Christine herself. 

“Am I not to be your young new wife?” Christine says, looking up at him, “Why do you say that with such derision?”

“Because _that_ is Monsieur de la Grande Bouche,” Raoul says, nodding towards the man seated opposite the Madame that Christine had taken the be her father. Christine is suddenly forced to hide a fit of giggles in Raoul’s jacket as he steers them away, snickering himself. “He’s thirty years her senior.” He snags Christine’s empty glass from her hand and leaves it on a table, merely nodding at the man sitting alone. “Thomas Eckerly, from England,” he says as they continue their trek. “Between you and me, I think he’s hiding something.” 

“Hiding what?” Christine asks. 

“He made a pass at me while we were in the Navy together,” Raoul says, raising his eyebrows suggestively and smirking. 

Christine fake-gasps. “Can’t say I blame him,” she says, her hand on his back sliding lower. 

“Stop that, you minx,” Raoul laughs, grabbing her hand and placing it back on his waist. “You’ll get us in trouble.”

“Aren’t you the one who told me to have a little fun?” she teases, tugging at his arm to lead him towards a well camouflaged door in the wall she knows leads to backstage. “To let loose?” 

“Christ, I think all the champagne has gone to your head,” Raoul says, but he has never been good at denying her anything and he tumbles after her into the dim light. “It has made you reckless.” 

“Nonsense,” Christine says, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss that makes him gasp in surprise. “I am being a little daring.” If anything the champagne has made her bold and she kisses him again, letting her hands wander across his back, wander lower, pull him closer to her. He groans at his own words being thrown back at him, at her fingers finding the belt-loops of his trousers and using them to pull him forward, at her fingers snaking around his back to find purchase on his behind. She would normally never do this. He laughs, a warm and throaty chuckle that she will never tire of hearing, and pins her against the wall, returning his lips to his favorite spot on her neck. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs, nipping at her jaw in a way that makes her toes curl in her heels. “People will wonder where we are.”

“No one will know it was us who disappeared through the door, we’re wearing masks.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Besides,” she carries on as if he hadn’t interrupted, “isn’t the point of an engagement to steal away in dark corners and get to know one another?” She tangles her fingers in his hair, tugs to bring him closer to her.

“Who knew you had such a dirty mind, Little Lotte?” he chuckles again, returning to her lips.

“I never said anything dirty,” she whispers. “I’m only trying to get to know you. What’s your favorite color?” 

“The color of your eyes,” he says, distracted as his hand hitches her leg up over his hip, and she swats at his behind. 

“They’re brown, that’s boring. Do better.” 

“First of all,” he says, pulling away and resting his forehead against hers, “they are beautiful. Second of all, brown is a lovely color. It is the color of your hair and of chocolate and of coffee, all things I am rather fond of, and the color of acorns and tree trunks and the sunbaked earth, and the leaves when they crunch under your feet, and—” 

“Okay, stop talking,” she says, pulling his face back down to hers. “You’re too good with words. It’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

“With you?” he asks, his teeth grazing her lower lip. She is going to go insane, and forgoes an answer in favor of tipping her head back against the wall to give him better access to her neck. He accepts it graciously, kissing his way from the junction of her neck and shoulder down to the swell of her breast, pulling aside the fabric only a little to nip and suck and leave bruising love bites that she would chastise him for, if only she cared. She pulls him up to meet her lips again and her head spins, overpowered by his closeness and the deviousness of all this. It is so unlike her. “Little Lotte,” he sighs as she kisses her way up his jaw. She has never been so in love. 

It is some time later when they emerge from the crossover, blushing and breathless and with swollen lips and mussed up hair, hiding little marks beneath their clothes and giggling about their secret, their love. Christine catches sight of herself in a mirror in the foyer and thinks they don’t look too bad, for two kids who were clandestinely kissing in a dark hallway. Raoul seems to be thinking the same thing because he laughs again and tugs her back towards the circuit they had been making before her timely distraction. 

“And there is my brother,” Philippe says, materializing seemingly from thin air at Raoul’s other elbow and dragging the two of them to a group of extravagantly dressed party-goers. They are all wearing masks and perhaps it is the glasses of champagne and the closeness of Raoul’s body and the smell of his cologne—notes of spicy cardamom and sweet bergamot—overpowering her senses, but the masks startle her this time. They are suddenly much more obvious, much more jarring, now she and Raoul have rejoined the party without theirs. She feels very naked, very stupid for insisting he leave his at home, for losing her own not ten minutes into this ordeal. “Raoul, greet our friends.” 

Raoul does so amicably and without ever losing touch of Christine, extending his hand in greeting to the old men and their much younger wives, rattling off their names without any problem at all and introducing Christine. Her left hand hovers over the ring, shielding it from view as she offers her right hand to the waiting group. 

“And how do you know our Raoul?” an older woman trills. She is dressed in something that requires a complicated wig, which is lopsided on her head. 

“We were childhood friends,” Christine says, leaning her head against Raoul’s chest and reveling in the gentle squeeze he gives her. “We’ve recently been reunited.” 

“Christine is my fiancée,” Raoul corrects, warmly, and her stomach does a little hop. _Fiancée_ must be the loveliest word in the whole language. She had asked him not to make a fuss, but then again, she can hardly begrudge him his happiness when she herself is so happy, her head swimming in champagne delight and love. 

The crowd around them fawns, and insists on toasting them. Christine has lost count of all the glasses she’s been sipping from this night, but Raoul’s steadying arm is reassuring and she smiles and blushes warmly when everyone shouts to their happiness and a blessed union; though Christine senses some hostility from the younger women who had continued to regard the Vicomte de Chagny as an available prize, as if she had not already staked him with her love years ago. Christine levels them with an easy smile, a comfortable hand resting on Raoul’s abdomen, controls the room like she has learned. The men congratulate Raoul with pats on the back and quips about the last months of his freedom, and the women declare they must see the ring. This makes Christine hesitant, she is reluctant to broadcast this to them all so concretely, but Raoul’s hand is steadying on  her waist and so she will let it happen because she does not have much of a choice. Everyone leans across the table to see it around her neck and Christine finds herself shying away from the crowding, leaning back into Raoul’s embrace. She sees several of the women exchange glances about the odd placement of her ring. 

One of the men turns his attention to her and gives her a once over. “And who is your father, Miss Daaé?” 

“His name was Gustave Daaé,” she says, “he was a violinist, though I’m afraid he passed away several years ago, God rest his soul.” 

There is a moment of quiet murmuring of sympathies, which Christine accepts awkwardly, and then a woman in a ridiculous black and white mask narrows her eyes. 

“A violinist named Daaé… Why you must be the singer!” she crows. “Yes, I remember now hearing that our dear Raoul was carrying a torch for a chorus girl.” 

“Prima donna,” Raoul corrects. “Christine was a leading soprano last season.” 

“Yes, involved with all that awful Ghost business, no? Dreadful, really…” the woman goes on, filling her friend—a bejeweled butterfly—in on all the “Ghost business” as the seed of worry that had been quashed by champagne and the warmth of the party springs to life in Christine’s stomach again. She’s a fool she’s a fool she’s a fool. What is she thinking, having secret trysts with Raoul in the backstage crossover like someone isn’t always watching? What is she thinking, coming here at all? She’s like a stupid sheep, wandering into a wolf’s trap, surrounded by people in masks. These thoughts weave in and out of her mind, she might mistake the fear for exhilaration if she tries hard enough, might convince herself she’s having fun. “I think I might care to dance,” the woman says loudly, jarring Christine from her dread induced spiral. “Shall we?” The crowd murmurs an assent and everyone rises to their feet but Christine dawdles a moment, sipping her champagne, her hand at her throat concealing her ring. She looks up and catches him watching her, thoughtful. 

“Can you believe that you are staring at your future bride?” she asks, leaning up to steal a kiss. She wants to distract herself from this fear, distract him from his hurt. 

“You wouldn’t think it, from the way she won’t show anyone the ring,” he says, obliging, though his eyes are troubled. 

“We agreed—a secret engagement would be all right for now. For tonight.” 

“No,” he says, “ _you_ agreed. I don’t understand _why_ you’re so insistent on keeping a secret—we’ve nothing to hide.” She can’t fault him for being annoyed, she really cannot, but she also cannot bring herself to move her hand. He takes her fingers in his, pulling them away from her neck, but she resolutely tugs them back. 

“You promised—” 

“ _You_ promised—” 

“Someone will see, Raoul,” she whines. 

“So let them,” he says. “I want the world to see.” 

“Raoul,” she sighs, “just for now.” 

He sighs, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t understand. What are you so afraid of?” 

“Later, Raoul,” she pleads, “let’s not argue. Please, just pretend it’s a secret for now, just for now.” 

He sighs again, but nods. “Let’s not argue,” he agrees. “I only hope that I really will understand in time.” 

“You will,” she says, taking his hands. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” he says, though he is distinctly troubled. She reaches for his half-full glass of champagne to finish it herself but he whisks it out of her hands, regaining a protective stance behind her as another group of people approach. 

“Miss Daaé!” Christine rolls her eyes so hard they might fall out of her head. She could use the champagne, now, and steals it back from Raoul, swallows it all in one go. He makes a move to stop her but is too slow. Monsieur Firmin—dressed as some sort of strange green wizard, frankly looking more like a frog—has an extremely recognizable voice, and it echoes strangely in her ears. She shakes her head, steadies herself against Raoul. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence once more. You’ve become rather elusive.” Monsieur Firmin glares at Raoul with this, who glares back much more fiercely. 

“I couldn’t miss such a lovely party,” Christine says. “A wonderful evening, Messieurs.” 

“Don’t thank us,” Monsieur André says, “thank the Vicomte. He is the one who funded it.” 

“I’m aware,” Christine says. 

“Have you given any further thought to our offer?” Monsieur Firmin asks, looking at them both. Carlotta makes an indignant noise of despair and Christine throws her a withering look—one she learned from Raoul—and gives her a once over. She is dressed like a spider, which is fitting, and glaring at Christine over something dreadfully pink in a martini glass. 

“Is this really the place to be negotiating job contracts?” Raoul muses. “Have a drink, Richard.”

Monsieur Firmin looks taken aback at being addressed by his first name by Raoul, who is at least twenty years his junior, but he cannot argue. Raoul is a Vicomte. Raoul holds Monsieur Firmin’s job in his hands. Christine would feel rather bad for him, if she didn’t dislike him so. 

This particular group is the last group of people she’d like to see right now. The Managers, Carlotta, and Piangi are leering at her, but before she can say anything further she catches Madame Giry staring at her breastbone—at her ring—with wide and horrified eyes. They lock gazes and Christine suddenly realizes how foolish it was to come here, to wear this ring where it is visible, to risk all this. Madame Giry has always known more than she lets on, and if she looks so scared then Christine should be trembling. Madame Giry’s glance cuts through the bubbles of the champagne, the thickness in her head and the tingling on her face, cuts right to her very soul and sends shivers down her spine. She is in more danger than she could possibly comprehend, she is sure of it. Madame Giry is a warning. Christine clutches at her ring to shield it from the ballet mistress’ prying eyes. “Darling,” she says faintly, reaching for Raoul, “I think I might like some fresh air—” 

“Nonsense!” Monsieur André declares, sweeping her up before she can leave. “A young girl like yourself ought to be dancing. Come!” He takes her by one elbow and Meg by another, thrusting them both towards the crowd before Christine can protest. She looks over her shoulder and Raoul assures her that he is coming with a gesture of his hand, only Madame Giry is clearly vying for his attention with a firm grasp on his shoulder. Christine thinks she can see her mouth the words “the Phantom” and “danger” before the crowd cuts across her view and she loses sight of Raoul, becoming swept up in the chaos around her. 

Meg holds on to her for a moment, but the whirling crowd separates them, too, and suddenly it is Christine in a sea of masks, terrible paper faces in every color leering at her, dancing, laughing, closing in on her from all sides. How could she have thought them delightful when she walked in? They are threatening, mysterious, monstrous hideaways containing dangerous secrets. A wizard, a queen, a Persian soldier whirl her between them, passing her like a game of ball. A lion and a monkey frog march her in a circle. A priest blesses her, a fearsome beast spins her. Any one of them could be _him,_ and they would be none the wiser. _She_ would be none the wiser. A Masquerade Ball! A ridiculous idea, really, and Christine’s heart is starting to race and her head is starting to spin as the music gets faster and faster. It is all she can do to stay upright as the room gets warmer and the masks get closer and cruel laughter fades in and out of her ears, people are bumping into her and she keeps thinking she catches a glimpse of stark white, of a sweeping black cape, a wide brimmed hat. It’s stupid, if he were to show up he certainly wouldn’t come dressed as himself, but she can’t help but see him at every turn, feel his skeletal hands in every person who grabs her and whirls her around in a fast paced dance that doesn’t seem to have any steps, is just a game of pass-Christine-until-she-pukes, makes her dizzy and scared and overwhelmed. 

Suddenly Raoul is there, his hands in hers and she clings onto him for dear life. Things slow down when he’s there, the room stops spinning so dramatically and the air feels a little clear around her, laced only with that lovely combination of cardamom and bergamot that she adores so much. The fear ebbs, only slightly, when he offers her a weak smile, sweeping her once more into a simple waltz so that she can regain her footing. 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, blinking. “Of course.” 

“I thought you needed some fresh air,” he says, puzzled.

“I was being silly.”

“Are you sure? It might do you some good. You’ve had a lot to drink, Little Lotte.”

“I’m fine,” she says, smiling up at him. “I just want to dance with you.”

He frowns, but continues to lead them in the dance, watching her closely and even managing to relax a little bit as the song wears on. 

It is just the champagne. She is drunk. She has never drank like this before, never had more than a few sips of her father’s wine at dinner, never felt this rush to her head that seems to fumble her words before they can reach her mouth, like her thoughts are a rushing river and the swirling water is sweeping away some key elements before she can make any sense. It is just the champagne, she tells herself, resting her head against Raoul’s chest and clinging to his hand for dear life. The song changes and he adjusts seamlessly into the next dance, something that involves a little more spinning and twirling her away from his embrace, then back to his arms. She lets herself follow, lets the champagne numb her body and mind, lets herself get lost in something that might be pleasure, if she squints.

It is nothing, though, compared to the overwhelming sense of dread that has descended upon her. She cannot ignore the feeling of his presence, and though she tries to tell herself that it’s habit, that the opera house always feels like this, she cannot completely convince herself. He is not here, not in this room, but he is in her mind again already and that is enough to send her spiraling. She tightens her hold on Raoul’s arm and he pulls her closer, tucking his face to her neck for just a moment, his hair tickling her skin. She is warm and sticky and the glitter from her dress is everywhere, the lights are too bright and the sounds too loud but everything strangely watery and garbled like when you slide under the water of the bathtub and open your eyes, staring up at the lights rippling through little waves that you make, hearing all the sounds secondhand through the barrier of the water. 

When she feels his gaze, it is unmistakable. It burns her back, sets her skin aflame so that she wants to yelp. How could she ever have though he was any one of these party-goers? Any casual man dressed as a fish, or a Greek god? She had always known him, always felt his presence. She should have known that she would find him tonight, that he would find her, that the two are one and the same. She stops dancing in the middle of everyone and Raoul looks at her in surprise, tries to get her attention once more but he is lost to her, she must find the source of that gaze. It seems to come from everywhere and also from nowhere and she turns on the spot, searching him out. 

“Christine?” Raoul’s voice is strangely distant. Everything is strangely distant, and she is strangely frozen. People are still dancing, still laughing, the music is still playing. Don’t they know? 

There. The gaze stands still and she turns slowly, achingly slowly. She is so terrified to lay eyes upon him, so terrified to see him again. There. He is standing at the top of the stairs, lord and master, gazing at his kingdom, these petty pawns he has lulled into their foolishly false sense of security. Christine stares, and he stares back, his eyes boring into hers, his presence washing over her like one hundred bottles of champagne. She thinks if she tries to move, to speak, to do anything other than stare, she will fall into a dead faint. 

Someone bumps into her and turns to snap at her but when they see her staring they follow her gaze and fall silent. It is like a ripple throughout the room, couples stop dancing and the music falls silent, everyone turns to stare at the figure in red at the top of the stairs. He is more terrifying than he’s ever been, a full death’s head covering his own living corpse face, a grand red costume that makes him seem larger than life. He radiates power, coldness, surety. Christine feels Raoul’s grip upon her waist, he is trying to tug her away, out of his line of sight out of this goddamned opera house out of this godforsaken nightmare but she can’t move. She must stay. She is nailed to the floor, struck dumb, full of fear and awe and anticipation as she waits for what happens next. 

The silence is deafening. Can silence be deafening? In the wake of the loudness of the party it can be. It presses on her ears, presses on her mind, strangely present and strangely distant. She wants him to say something, anything, confirm that he is real and not some figment of her imagination. 

“Why so silent?” he asks. That voice. That _voice._ It is just as she remembered, silken like the finest fabrics from faraway places, soothing like a warm bath, powerful like a king. “Surprised to see me?” He is not even addressing her, but she follows his line of sight to the Managers, who are standing dumbstruck at the front of the crowd, quaking in their stupidly fancy little boots. “You didn’t think I would miss such a lovely party, did you?” 

Nobody says anything. What is there to say?

“Or perhaps,” he continues, after a dramatic pause—he is just as capable of playing a room as Raoul, Christine realizes—taking a step down the stairs, “you thought me gone?” Still nobody speaks. They are entranced by him, she is entranced by him. “Fools!” he roars, so loudly that everybody in the room jumps, he takes another step down the stairs. “I brought you a gift.” The switch is fast, like whiplash, from angry and wrathful and terrifying to soft and sweet and nearly loving. 

He reaches into his cloak and everyone gasps, taking an instinctive step back. Raoul steps in front of Christine, blocks her body with his, but she leans around his arm, desperate to see. He unearths a bound manuscript from the folds of his cloak and throws it towards Messieurs André and Firmin. Hundreds of pairs of eyes follow its graceful arc through the air in stunned silence. Monsieur André reaches out and catches it with a soft _oof._ It must be heavy. 

“The finished score of my opera,” the Phantom says, taking two more steps down. “ _Don Juan Triumphant._ ” The crowd exchanges glances, Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin are staring in horror at the manuscript in their hands. “My instructions should be clear, Messieurs. I advise you follow them… to the letter. Remember, there are worse things in this world than a shattered chandelier.” Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin nod—Christine is appalled—and take two weak steps back, sinking into the crowd.

The silence is agonizing. Palpable, heavy, louder than a cannon. Hundreds of people wait, staring in fear and shock and awe as he descends the final step and reaches the floor. The people take a step back in unison and Raoul tries to pull Christine backwards, but she is left in the middle of a large empty space, alone in the middle of the silence. She is in the spotlight, center stage, the star of a very twisted show. She tilts her head, stares at her Angel. It has been so long since she last saw him, but it seems nothing at all has changed. She is drawn to him, her heart is beating for him, she is powerless to resist him. He reaches out an arm, a bare hand, beckons her forward with a finger. 

Her body moves of its own accord. She cannot help it, cannot help that some part of her _wants_ to go to him, has missed him—How could she ever have thought she didn’t?—wants to hear his voice, wants the strange calm of his presence, wants to slip back into the comfort of his darkness. She feels Raoul’s hand slacken upon her wrist—he is stunned—as she steps forward, feels the gaze of hundreds of onlookers seem to fade away until there is only him, his eyes, his hand, his voice. She approaches him, equal parts willing and not, equal parts terrified and unafraid, but unable to stop herself. Her willingness to trust, to give second chances has always been her downfall. Or perhaps it is just naivety, perhaps it is just a childish desire to have a guardian, to be known, perhaps it is just weakness where he is concerned.

“Christine,” he says. His bare hand comes to rest on her cheek. It is pale, skeletal, cold as the grave, sends a shiver down her spine. His voice washes over her like a storm, stirs her head and her heart, the marrow in her bones. She cannot resist the urge to lean into his touch. Images flash across her mind. His hands, ungloved. Her back, arched. Her mouth, open. Stars bursting across her vision, music that seems to come from inside her very soul. She cannot deny him anything with that voice, he has always had such unparalleled control over her, it is frightening and thrilling and provocative. She wants to disappear. His eyes trace her face—she can feel them burning her skin—her cheekbones and her lips, her jaw and her neck until they come to rest on her breastbone. In an instant she goes cold, feels what he sees, feels her heart stutter in her chest as his hand closes around the ring. “You broke our promise,” he murmurs, so only she can hear. 

Her promise? How could she have done that? And then suddenly she remembers, comes flying back to the present, feels the hundreds of eyes and the tension in the room, knows she stands as the gatekeeper of certain destruction for all these people. But it does not matter, she has already broken her promise, the damage has been done. _Raoul_. Her choice is Raoul. She knows this, she knows this with the same sort of certainty that she knows this man is dangerous. It brings a small burst of clarity to the forefront of her mind, to her heart. “Yes,” she whispers. She will defy this haze if it kills her. It might. 

There is so much in his eyes. Anger, hurt, sadness. They are at war within him, she can see him making his own choice. “Your chains are still mine,” her Angel snarls, terrible and wicked, and yanks the chain from her neck. The crowd gasps. “You will sing for me.” 

He is gone before she can register any of this, disappearing into some parallel night with a flash and a bang and a cloud of smoke, and it is this that breaks the spell on the audience, sends them plunging into chaos. There is screaming, shattering glasses, a rush of footsteps as everyone tries to find their partner, tries to find the exit. Distantly Christine can hear Raoul’s voice, though he is shouting for Madame Giry and not for her, curiously enough, but she runs in the opposite direction. It is a battle to fight through the rushing crowd but she pushes with her elbows, ignores the indignant cries and the questioning of those who recognize her, runs towards the door she knows will lead her to silence. 

Oh, there will be consequences. Everyone will know, now. Everyone will believe her. Everyone will know that he is a man and know that he is a man who has taken a special interest in her, will assume the worst of her and Raoul and this whole situation. Not that the worst _shouldn’t_ be assumed, not that she hasn’t done the worst at the behest of this Phantom, not that she isn’t spoiled by his desire and her own stupidity. What will happen next? She hurries through the darkness, hurries ever forward, relying on her memories of the place and her sense of touch to prevent her from tripping. The Managers will realize now, the Managers will realize that this Ghost is not a ghost but is a man. Or perhaps they will choose to be stupid, willfully ignorant, refuse to acknowledge the problem at hand. Stranger things have happened. 

The stage is silent, and dark. The lamps in the house are out, the new chandelier unlit, the air is empty and cold. How very strange to find herself here, or not strange at all, her feet had known where they were leading her, even if her mind was not privy to the destination. She has almost missed this place, she thinks, staring out at the empty seats. If she closes her eyes she can almost imagine they are full, almost imagine that the lights are up and the stage is crowded with performers, almost see herself as a leading lady again. When she opens her eyes she is met with the silence again, and the dark. She is alone. The only light is from the ghost light—an ironic tradition for this theatre, Christine can’t help but think, given that their ghost is only too real and has never been frightened by a little illumination—sitting center stage. She drifts towards it like a moth to a flame, sits next to it, buries her head in her hands. 

This is all a terrible mess, and she had seen it coming. That is the worst part. She had known what she risked by stepping into this place wearing Raoul’s ring, had known even months ago when she’d declared her love for him on the rooftop—like a fool!—thinking it was safe, had known what all of this would mean. Condemned by her own foolish desire to want something more for herself! She has been kidding herself this entire time, believing that she and Raoul could ever live a happy life, free from worry, free from ghosts. It seems she was destined to be haunted, by her father, by the Phantom, by the weight of all the lives she will never live. It seems she will never be free of this nightmare, this labyrinth, this dreadful, unending tragedy. The Phantom has made her choice for her—him, always him, only him—but she has never felt more compelled to fight against it. Never felt more strongly that he is _wrong,_ wrong about everything, wrong for her, wrong in this world. The only thing that she has ever thrown herself headlong into without regret is Raoul, her love for Raoul, her surety of Raoul, and for what? For the Phantom to ruin this all? It isn’t fair. She wants her freedom, her honest to God freedom, unconditional and unencumbered. 

For that, she will have to face him. That is a certainty. 

But she has proved to herself that she cannot resist his pull. She knows for certain now that even letting him into her life a little bit, even a conversation, even the smallest interaction will ruin her again. She will fight him, she _will_ fight him, but how long can that last? He is infinite, and she is small. He has all the time in the world, he will wear her away, he will lull her under his spell once more, and he will not let her go. She cannot face him. It is not an option. How can she come back to this opera house knowing he haunts these halls, knowing he will inevitably come for her? Knowing that she will go with him because she does not seem to have a choice, not when he has so much power over her, not when he knows all her secrets, her impurities, not when she has surrendered herself to him body and soul. Not when he can bring her world down in a roaring catastrophe, if she doesn’t. The only solution is to stay away, to throw everyone else in harm’s way, to save herself and get as far away from this as possible. To never sing, and to hope that that is enough. To know it might not be, to know that he will haunt her for the rest of her days, that he will always be there. 

She belongs to him. She has belonged to him since she was seventeen and stupid, since she blindly made the choice. She will pay for it for the rest of her life. He has ruined her in every conceivable way. The only way out is forward. What a vague direction that is. There are no answers, there is no way to win this game, there is just her, a player on a great chessboard, a marionette on strings, controlled by a maestro with no moral compass. Whatever way she turns, she will risk someone. 

This realization is deafening.

“Christine!” 

She cannot find it in her to jump when Meg calls her name, cannot even find it in her to lift her head from her hands. 

“Christine,” Meg is saying, gently shaking her shoulder. “Christine, everyone was so worried! He’s disappeared again, they thought he took you! Are you alright?” She cannot find it in herself to respond, only gives a small sob. “Christine what happened? Where did he go?” She hears more voices, more clanging doors, somebody just beyond the stage. Meg calls out to them. “I’ve found her! She’s here! Christine!” 

There is a rush of footsteps as a number of people join her on the stage, but Christine does not look up to see who they are. She can hear relieved murmuring, can pick out the voices of Madame Giry and Messieurs André and Firmin, but she really only wants the one. She wants the comfort he offers, while she can take it. Wants to hear his words, his thoughts, his promises. Wants to know that loving him, damning herself to the Phantom’s rage, was the right choice all along. Raoul kneels next to her and places a hand upon her back. It is warm, skin against skin, tears a sob from her chest. How many lifetimes ago it seemed they were in the crossover, pressed against one another like wanton fools, children playing games. He has no idea. 

“Can you give us a moment?” she hears him say, hears the others retreat, feels Meg retreat last, her small hand disappearing from Christine’s shoulder. “We’re alone,” Raoul says, finally. She raises her head to look at him; he is sitting cross-legged on the stage next to her, leaning forward like a child waiting to hear a story. 

“We’re never alone here,” she says. “We never will be.” 

“Why do you say that?” he asks, running his hand along the straps of her dress.

“He is everywhere.”

“He’s a man.”

“Now you believe me.” Raoul looks away. It’s mean, she knows it is. He had listened, he had tried, he had offered her comfort and an open ear, had tried to make sense of this garbled story she’s told him. It’s not his fault it’s such an awful mess. There was nothing he could have done, anyway.

“I’ve always believed you,” he says, and she knows it is the truth. He has, it’s not his belief that wavered, not his faith in her, only his acceptance of the truth, and its consequences. “Madame Giry told me who he is.”

“I don’t want to know,” she whispers. “I don’t want to know him any more than I already do.”

“What _do_ you want?” Raoul asks.

“You,” Christine says, without hesitation. “A life. A family, maybe, two kids and a dog and a house with space for them to play. Freedom, for my thoughts to be my own again.” Raoul nods, his fingers drum against the bare skin of her back. Christine takes a deep, shuddering breath. “To be done with all of this, this Ghost and this grief and regret, this pain and fear and uncertainty.”

“What are you uncertain about?” She sees the fear in his eyes. Knows he thinks that it’s him. Aches that she ever could have made him think that.

“The future,” she says. “There is no way forward that doesn’t have him in it.” She is echoing her own words from that night all those months ago, knows them to be truer than ever.

“So what does that mean?”

“That if I don’t face him, I’ll never be rid of him. But if I face him, I could lose everything.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We?” she stares at him, and he stares back.

“We. You and I. You cannot possibly think I will let you face this alone.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” she laughs, though it is empty. “I’ve done nothing but lie and keep his secrets.”

“That’s not true,” Raoul says. “You told me. It’s my fault I didn’t listen properly. I shouldn’t have brought you here tonight.”

Christine just stares at him, reaches a hand in the space between them. He catches it, presses her fingers to his lips. “I love you,” she says. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Raoul says. “We always do.”

“I’m tired,” she says. “Can’t we just run?”

“We could run, if you really want,” he says. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Christine says, after a long moment. “If we run, it won’t really be over. I don’t want to live in fear. I don’t want to be always running from him. I don’t want him to own me any longer.”

“He is a man,” Raoul says.

“So how does he have so much power?” Christine whispers. “He is only a man, I understand, but how can he be inside my mind?”

“I don’t know,” Raoul says, and she sees that it kills him to say it.

“I belong to him,” she says. Raoul does not know the extent of it. She might never be able to tell him.

“You belong to no one,” he replies. “No one.”

If only she could believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry, even i don't know how long this thing is going to be anymore, i just love purple prose so much


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when hadley fraser says "they can't make you" in the 25th anniversary rb if you agree

 He has never been one for fast action, the six months of silence while he wrote this opera—because that is what he must have been doing, Christine reasons—are proof of that. He had waited years to come for her, spent weeks earning her trust, months cultivating her dependence on him until she could not do anything without his instruction. It is only strange, then, strange and dreadfully sinister, how swiftly whatever plan he has concocted is going into effect.

She and Raoul make it home. She cannot imagine how they did it, she stumbling drunk and he faring only slightly better, but they make it back to _La Parisienne_ and he lays down on the sofa and pulls her into his arms and they fall asleep in their costumes, dreadfully uncomfortable though they are, Christine using his body as a pillow, his heartbeat and the waves of champagne against her mind an altogether more soothing lullaby than even the Phantom’s voice. When she wakes in the morning they have rotated, she is pressed between Raoul’s chest and the back of the sofa, her spine and her ribs are screaming in protest at the tightness of her corset and her head is pounding. She groans and Raoul makes a muffled noise against her hair. 

“Get up,” says a sharp voice. Christine jerks into a sitting position, dislodging Raoul, who falls off the sofa and lands on the floor with a _thud._  

“Whatsgoingon?” he says, sitting up and shaking his head. He looks so ridiculous that Christine would laugh, if the mood of the room did not say that things were very bad and they should not have been asleep.

“You’ve been summoned,” says Philippe, opening all the curtains. Christine squints in the bright light of the first day of January and covers her eyes with her hands. 

“I have? What _now_?” Raoul groans and lies back down on the ground. “I am tired. I am hungover. Last night ended in an unqualified disaster. Christine and I are going back to bed and I will hear no arguments against it.” 

“Not you,” Philippe says, silencing Raoul with a look. “You.” 

Christine can feel them both looking at her and she lifts her head from her hands. “Me?” she says. “By whom?” 

“The Managers of the Opera Populaire,” says Philippe. “It seems they require your presence.” 

“What for?” she and Raoul ask at the same time.

“I don’t know anything more than that. Only that I have kept them at bay for an hour so that you could sleep, and I cannot possibly do so any longer.” 

“This is unacceptable,” Raoul says. Christine can see in his eyes that it is partly on principle of obeying anyone that he is so upset. “We’ve just woken!” 

“That is not my fault,” Philippe says. “Christine must go.” 

“Of course,” she says, standing to her feet numbly. She feels ridiculous, still in this gown from last night. She hopes she has not ruined Monsieur Delacourt’s hard work, though she cannot imagine she will ever have a chance to wear it again. “I must change.” 

Philippe nods, and calls for her attendant. “Raoul,” he says, “you ought to go home. Get some more rest—” 

“No,” says Raoul, standing and straightening himself. “I’ll be accompanying my fiancée to this gathering. Send Louis ahead to tell the Managers that we will arrive when we do, and they are not to bother us any further.” 

Philippe nods and goes to do this while Christine disappears to change. It is a relief when her attendant, Marie, undoes the stays of her corset and releases her. Christine takes a welcome few breaths, leaning against the vanity as the room sways. She closes her eyes and lets her head pound for a few seconds before she realizes that Marie is speaking to her. 

“The plum, Miss Daaé? A wonderful color for January, I think.” Dresses. She is asking what dress Christine wants to wear. 

“The blue,” she says. “I want to wear the blue.” She hadn’t worn it before their courtship for fear of impropriety and for fear of what her Angel would say, and hadn’t worn it since because it is complex and beautiful and far too special for an everyday occasion. But it was Raoul’s gift to her and it seems fitting to where it into whatever lion’s den they are about to walk, a united front. It is a lovely thing, Raoul really knows her so well. The color compliments her skin—is the color of his eyes in the late afternoon sun—and the neck is modestly high, but not demure. The lace with the bluebells at the neckline is a delightful little touch, and the bustle is dramatic but so in style. She only regrets that Marie has her clutching the bedpost as she does up the corset tightly again to cinch in her waist and keep her upright. There is no time for matters of hair or makeup, so Marie leaves it tumbling down Christine’s back and swipes a touch of rouge on her face to offset her pallor. The whole thing is much faster than Christine would have liked, and she is exhausted. 

It is annoying that Raoul looks so put together, despite having woken up on the literal floor twenty minutes ago, and Christine tells him as much. 

“You look lovely,” he says in reply, pressing a kiss to her forehead and a glass of water into her hands. “Drink this first, then tea, and then we must go.” 

“I suppose,” she grumbles. “Where did you even get those clothes?” 

He blushes a deep red. “I took the liberty of leaving a spare set or two yesterday when I came to collect you for the Ball. I had a feeling I might be stumbling home with you.” 

Christine looks him up and down and smirks behind her water glass. “Now who’s the one with dirty thoughts?” she teases. It is so easy to tease him here, so easy to pretend that this moment is suspended in time and that they haven’t another care in the world. 

“Not I!” he says, blushing again. “I only meant that I thought you might need my help getting home, and that I, a gentleman, would only be too happy to sleep on the sofa and protect you from intruders. I have never thought wicked thoughts about you, my darling fiancée, most beautiful of women and love of my life.” 

“Sure,” she says, finishing her water. She chews on her lip for a moment, then decides that she has to voice what’s on her mind at the second mention of the word “fiancée” this morning. “Am I still your fiancée?” she asks, bluntly. 

He looks at her in surprise. “I certainly hope so,” he says. “Unless you have changed your mind.” He gazes at her for a moment, suddenly nervous. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” she says, hurriedly. “Of course not. Never. I only thought that after everything, the Phantom—”

“That I would not wish to marry you?” he says. She detects a note of hurt in his tone. “Not a chance.”

“I lost the ring,” she mumbles, perhaps by way of explanation.

“I don’t care about that,” he says. “I only care that I love you, and that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If that is still your wish, then it seems we are still in agreement.”

She gives him a small smile and takes a healthy sip of tea. He hates tea, and yet he makes hers perfectly every time. She loves him so much.

“What do you think this meeting is about?” she asks.

“Something asinine, no doubt,” he grumbles. “I’m sure it can wait, whatever it is, they are just trying to exercise power over us.”

He is displeased and distracted the entire carriage ride to the opera, but holds her hand and rubs soothing circles with his thumb none the less. His leg bounces and Christine rests a hand on his knee and her head on his shoulder. They are in this together.

“I have to admit, I am rather fond of this dress,” he murmurs.

“Yes, somebody with impeccable taste gifted it to me,” she teases.

He makes a big show of presenting her as they enter the room, holding her hand high and rolling his eyes as everyone throws their hands in the air with varying proclamations of relief and exasperation. Christine has never been in the Managers’ office before, and rather wishes she were here under different circumstances. The little room with its two desks and overstuffed chairs is crowded, both Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin are there, as well as Carlotta and Piangi, all four of them staring at Christine and Raoul as they enter.

“Here she is, the lady of the hour!” cries Monsieur André.

“Miss Daaé, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Monsieur Firmin says, nodding.

“Yes, we’re here,” Raoul says, keeping a hand on Christine. “Now what is this about?”

“ _Don Juan Triumphant,”_ says Monsieur André. “It seems you have secured the largest role in this opera, Miss Daaé.” He offers her the score and Christine sees her name, written in that imperious red cursive, next to the role of Aminta. She hurriedly flips through, looking for her entrance.

“She doesn’t have the voice,” snorts Carlotta.

“Signora, please,” Monsieur André hisses.

“Then I take it you’re agreeing to his commands?” Raoul snarls.

“We haven’t got another option, Monsieur le Vicomte!” Monsieur Firmin snaps. “If we don’t, he has threatened certain disaster for us all!”

“And if you do, you guarantee certain disaster for Christine!”

“It is a risk we must take!”

“I think not,” Raoul says.

So this is the reason they have summoned her this morning. To tell her that she can no longer dawdle, no longer walk the line between returning and not. They have made her choice for her, as she always feared they would. Christine’s head is swimming. She is scarcely paying attention to the conversation, is searching the music for some answers she knows she will not find. Why? How? Things he must certainly know, things that must certainly be somewhere in here, things she could find if only everyone would shut up and stop talking about her, if only she could have some damn peace and quiet to read the thing.

“I have always thought she was strange,” Carlotta sniffs. “She is behind this, I know it!”

This makes Christine’s head jerk up as there is an uncomfortable moment of silence. “How dare you?” she snaps at Carlotta.

“How dare I say what everyone has been thinking for years? You and this Ghost are working together! You have been trying to have me removed from the opera since _Hannibal_ and now you have finally found a way to the top!”

“You nasty woman!” Christine says, crossing the room to stand before Carlotta. She is rather shorter than the Signora, but the other woman takes a step back. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I don’t want any part in this!”

“How could you not?” Carlotta says. “How could you not want to be the lead? It is what you have been after all these years, no?”

“No!” Christine says, hotly. “Not like this.” 

“Miss Daaé!” the Managers say in unison.

“Why not?” Monsieur Firmin demands.

“I will not be a pawn in your stupid war with the Phantom,” Christine says. “I have no wish to hand my life over to him once more.”

“It is, of course, your decision,” Monsieur André lies, “but surely there is something we could say to convince you. A pay raise? A new dressing room?”

“It’s not about the money!” Christine snaps. Can’t they all see? Don’t they all know the story of Don Juan?

“She’s backing out,” Carlotta whispers to Piangi. “She doesn’t have it in her.”

“You have a duty!” cries Monsieur André.

“I won’t,” Christine says, angry tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Duty or not.” 

Raoul takes her in his arms, shielding her from the onslaught for a moment. “Christine,” he says. A tear escapes her eye as she looks at him and shakes her head, and he swipes it away with his thumb. “You don’t have to,” he says, and then glares at the Managers, who take a step back, “they can’t make you.” 

Christine nods, shakily, and is just about to say something when the door to the office bursts open and Madame Giry strides in, looking grave. “Another note,” she says, holding the envelope high. There is a collective groan from everyone in the room, and Christine feels the blood drain from her face as Madame Giry clears her throat and begins to read. It is as if the voice of the ballet mistress fades away, is replaced by something far smoother and more sinister, as if the Phantom is among them, speaking to them, addressing them directly. 

“ _Fondest greetings to you all,”_ she begins, “ _I write with a few instructions before rehearsals are to begin on my opera. I trust you have had a chance to read the score, and to make the necessary accommodations in the chorus and the orchestra, and that my costume and set directions will be followed accordingly. Furthermore, it has come to my attention that Carlotta believes she has been slighted.”_ Carlotta scoffs, here, and makes a noise of indignation as Madame Giry carries on. “ _The fact of the matter is simple: she cannot act, but simply struts around the stage. Should she wish to retain a role in my opera, she must learn to do better. Our Don Juan must lose some weight. I write only out of concern for Piangi’s health, as he should know that it is rather unhealthy in a man of his age. My Managers—”_ Madame Giry clears her throat and casts a glance at Messieurs André and Firmin, who pale, “— _must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts. They are to follow my instructions and to produce an opera, not to be involved in creative decisions for which they have little talent. As for Miss Christine Daaé,”_ here, everyone’s attention turns to her, and Christine struggles to keep her face calm. Her heart is beating so loud she is sure they can all hear it, her thoughts swirling so quickly they must be pouring out her ears. Madame Giry only pauses for a moment, though, before she carries on, “ _no doubt she will do her best, and no doubt her best will be good. It is true that she is a great talent, for which I can only claim partial responsibility. That being said, if she truly wishes to excel in this role, she has much still to learn. I can only hope her pride will permit her to return to me, her teacher. I will be waiting. Your obedient friend and Angel.”_  

There is a beat of silence as these words settle in the room and everybody comes to grips with this. It is a thinly veiled threat, Christine knows, the absence of the words _or else_ does not mean they are not implied, does not mean that failing to comply with these strange orders will not result in a terrible catastrophe. Not another chandelier, something far worse, Christine is sure of it. She is trying to wrap her head around them, around the comment about Piangi’s weight, about the absence of Raoul’s name, avoid thinking about the Phantom’s request to her to resume her lessons, understand what all this _means_ in a larger picture. It _means_ that he is after her, that he has cornered them, that this opera will happen as he wishes _or else._  

“I can’t,” Christine says. “I won’t.” 

There is another beat of silence as everyone stares at her, and then Raoul speaks, startling her. 

“We have all been blind,” he declares, and she turns to look at him in surprise, “to the opportunity this presents.” 

“What?” Monsieur Firmin says, staring at Raoul. 

“This is our chance to catch him at last! We have been so focused on finding a way to _not_ give in to his demands, when if we do, it could be his downfall.” 

“We’re listening,” says Monsieur André. 

“We play the game,” Raoul says, and Christine begins to see where this is going before he even speaks. A special talent it is, to know her lover so well that she can guess his thoughts, but one that is proving ultimately useless in this moment, because she is struck dumb by the sheer stupidity of what he is about to suggest. “We put on the show. _Don Juan Triumphant_ goes up, his instructions are followed to the letter.” 

“And what will we get out of that?” Monsieur Firmin demands. Everyone else shushes him. 

“You forgot, Monsieur Firmin, that we hold the ace,” Raoul says, gesturing to Christine, who is shaking her head, mouth open in surprise. “If Miss Daaé sings, he is certain to attend the performance.” 

“And _we_ are certain to bar the doors,” Monsieur André says. 

“We are certain to post men at every entrance!” Monsieur Firmin cries, finally cottoning on.

“And we are certain that they are armed,” Raoul says, grimly. “The second the curtain falls, we descend, he is captured, and we are free of this mess.”

Christine is appalled. How could Raoul be so _stupid?_ She makes to say something only he is not paying attention, he has his head bowed in deep discussion with the Managers, all differences seemingly set aside in light of this new plan. Christine turns to Madame Giry, who looks as thunderstruck as she feels. With a sudden urge to cry she realizes that Madame Giry, though not motherly by far, is still the closest thing she’s ever had to a mother. She has only ever been looking out for Christine since the beginning, and she reaches for her now. 

“They can’t,” Christine says, grabbing Madame Giry’s hands. Madame Giry crushes her to her chest, a hand against her head.

“This is madness!” Madame Giry says, drawing the attention of the men. “Utter lunacy!” 

“It isn’t!” Monsieur André says. “This is our chance! ” 

“We will win this game!” cries Monsieur Firmin. 

“There _is_ no winning this game!” Madame Giry says.

“You stick to ballet,” Monsieur Firmin snarls, and Christine gasps.

“Help us,” Raoul says, looking at her. 

“I can’t,” Madame Giry says.

“You must!” Raoul says.

“I wish I could!”

“Don’t make excuses,” Monsieur André cries.

“Why are you protecting him? Are you on his side?” Raoul demands. Christine is appalled at the very suggestion, but Carlotta and Piangi love this declaration and leap forward, eager to be a part of the discussion again.

“She’s his accomplice!” they cry, and Christine is in utter disbelief.

“Are you forgetting that we have seen this man kill?” Madame Giry says, but Raoul is not listening. He has already turned his back on her and gone back to the Managers, speaking about how this is the Phantom’s undoing, how this will be his downfall.

The room suddenly feels very small, and the six other people very big. The Managers and Raoul are talking loudly about plans, about defeating the Angel of Music, about her involvement, her duty. Carlotta and Piangi are loudly proclaiming that they think Christine’s involvement is counterproductive, because she has obviously been working with the Phantom, and so has Madame Giry, for that matter. Madame Giry herself has stalked over to the huddle of Managers and Raoul and is loudly arguing with them about the foolishness of their plan. The voices are overpowering, all this yelling is making Christine’s head spin, and that’s nothing compared to the fear. Christine stares after Raoul, reaches for him but he ignores her, pacing back and forth and resolutely ignoring Madame Giry. The Phantom has always brought out the worst in him, only she does not know how to make him see that this is not just foolish and naïve, it is deadly for them all. 

“Stop—” she tries, “listen to me—” 

But they are all absorbed in their own conversations, debating about her very future with no care at all for her own feelings on the matter. It is terribly selfish of her to be so against this plan, she knows objectively that if she helps them, if she agrees, they might— _might—_ succeed in putting an end to this at last. But she _knows_ her Angel, at least better than the rest of them do. She knows that there is no outsmarting this man, this wicked devil, this clever Odysseus, Orpheus, this man who is capable of anything, capable of escaping any demise be it by trickery or his voice, or some dreadful combination of the two. Perhaps they all do not realize—because they are not _listening_ —that their plan will surely condemn her to death. Her betrayal will be the final knife in Caesar’s back, she is both the Brutus and the Soothesayer, only somehow Christine does not imagine that their plan will be so successful. The Phantom will take her, she will never be free, she will sing for him forever and ever and ever and be consigned to darkness for the rest of her days. She wants no part in it. Wants no part in the responsibility for the safety of everyone, wants no part in her own demise, and, strangely, wants no part in her Angel’s downfall. That is the worst of it all. 

His face drifts across the forefront of her mind, the pain in his eyes when he had seen Raoul’s ring around her neck, the softness of his touch against her cheek, and she feels a pang in her heart. How lonely he must have been, all this time. And here they debate his death as if it is a prize. Is it not? She is terribly conflicted, overcome by fear and a looming sense of betrayal, indecision and reluctance. Perhaps he is here, perhaps he is inside her mind, or perhaps it is only because she is thinking of him that it seems he is physically present in the room. It feels like he is all around her, like a dark specter looms above her, waiting to take her once more back to that haze of darkness, that never ending life of loneliness, of solitude. She has seen so much more, she knows now how much more of the world there is, and she cannot bear it. She cannot bear any of this. Cannot bear her own fate, cannot bare her Angel’s, cannot bear the thought of Raoul coming to harm over his stupidity. As she feels the tears start to escape the corners of her eyes she thinks she hears it, ever so softly, floating above the cacophony of shouting voices now that have turn the office into an echo chamber. Her Angel’s voice has always pierced her soul, and yet it is the last thing she wants to hear at this moment. 

“If you don’t stop it I’ll go mad!” she screams, throwing down the libretto and throwing her hands over her ears. The room falls silent and immediately Raoul rushes to her side.

“Christine!” 

“Raoul, I’m _frightened_!” she sobs, and it is this that finally gets his attention. He looks to her and that mad glint disappears from his eyes, that resolute determination to kill fades and he rushes to her, catching her by the shoulders before she can sink to the ground. “Don’t make me do this,” she gasps. “Please don’t make me do this. He’s after me. He’s after me and if he sees the opportunity he will take me, and I will never see you again!” Raoul is nodding, holding her close in the circle of his arms and helping her into a chair that has magically appeared behind her, sinking to his knees and holding her to him while great sobs rack her body. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he see how complicated this is? Doesn’t he _know_ that this plan, however brilliant he thinks it to be, can never succeed? There is a glaring problem in it all, besides her own indecision and fear, which is that she is not sure she can even bring herself to sing anymore. Her dream has become her waking nightmare, the thought of using her voice fills her with paralyzing dread and an urge to throw up, it makes her head spin with anxiety and trepidation, she cannot. She will not. “If I go back to him,” she says, trembling, staring into Raoul’s eyes, “If he finds me, this will never end. I am certain. If I go back to him he will always be there, in my mind, forever. I will never be free.” 

Raoul searches her eyes for a long moment with his own. They are the blue of a hurricane, of the slate gray Swedish sea, forbidding and wild, so unlike the calm and clear brightness she is yearning for. And yet she sees him hear her, sees some light of recognition of her fear, of pain for her hurt, of love for her as he reaches a hand and swipes a tear from her cheek, nods and presses a kiss to her forehead, waits until the worst of the sobs have passed until he speaks. She sees the frustration, too, when she mentions her Angel’s place inside her mind. Not even Raoul can truly free her from this hell, not even Raoul can rid her of this parasite, not even Raoul can stop her Angel from taking up residence in her mind again. She sees that knowledge kill him.

“She’s mad,” Carlotta mutters behind her, but she doesn’t care. She holds Raoul’s gaze, willing him to see and to understand and to realize that he cannot do this. He is the first to break, looking down and taking her hands in his. 

“Christine,” he says. His voice is soft, his eyes are sad. She wants to listen. “You said yourself that he is nothing but a man.” She knows. She _knows,_ but he doesn’t understand. He never has, never has really comprehended just how far gone she was—is?—how much she depended on her Angel, how much he possesses her. He may be a man but matters of the heart and the mind are never so simple, they turn men to gods and angels and demons. A man is no mere matter. “As long as he lives, he will haunt us until we die.” She knows. She _knows,_ but he doesn’t understand. He never has, never has really comprehended that her Angel is not such a simple thing, is not such an easy thing, is not so neat and straightforward. Still, he says us. _Us._ Raoul and she, together until they die, forever haunted by this terrible avenging Angel. She cannot stand the thought of the rest of their life together being marred by his constant living presence, cannot stand the fact that she might never be free. 

It is twisted every way. There is no right answer, she knows this. There is the obvious answer, there is agreeing to this terrible plot and putting herself at risk for the tiniest chance that they are successful, but the all-more-likely outcome is that Raoul is killed, the Opera Populaire is destroyed, and Christine becomes a prisoner once more. And then there is refusing, refusing to sing, refusing to be a pawn in this game, refusing to have her choices made by people who have never really understood. Refusing means stepping away, it means Raoul’s disappointment and it means condemning the Opera Populaire to certain destruction anyway, because if she does not sing he will surely unleash a terrible rage upon them all.

And then there is the horrible question that looms over it all which is that if she agrees, if she finds her voice once more and agrees to use it, agrees to sing and be a part of this scheme, can she stand to see her Angel die? He had come for her. He had been her only friend, her confidant, her guide and guardian through so many long months of terrible loneliness and sadness. He had saved her, had given her back her voice, had given her back a connection to her father, had improved her talent beyond measure and made her wildest dreams and fantasies a reality. The most terrible thing is that she might have grown to love him, perhaps not in the way he so clearly desires, having cast her as Aminta, but in a strange and secret way, and one that she sees now is altogether sinister. Still, matters of the heart are never clear, and hers has been darkened by him for a long time. How can she betray him? Worst of all, how can she use her _voice_ to betray him? How can she turn his masterpiece into a weapon, use his own work against him? Can she bear to see him hurt, even after all he’s done to hurt her? 

Say she says yes. She will certainly have to resume her lessons. She has scanned Aminta’s part, it is dreadfully difficult. She had expected nothing less from the most talented musician she has ever met, her father included, but he has done a wicked thing. He has written her a role that she cannot confuse—not the challenge, not the excitement of it all—and a role that she cannot sing without his help. She knows that he knows that she will have to return to him. She will have to let him into her mind once more, try as she might not to, will have to risk losing herself in this again. What horrors lie in wait, if she says yes? 

Undoubtable horrors. She has seen him kill, has seen him murder, has seen him do these things and not care. Has seen him commit terrible, horrible sins with no thought for anyone but himself—and for _her,_ but now she thinks on it those things seem the same. His desire for her has never seemed good-natured, it has been a strange and sinister secret since the very beginning. He haunts her, he hunts her, this willing decision to become his prey is a suicide mission. 

But say they are successful. Say she goes through this, these hellish three months, say she faces whatever he has in store for her. Say she makes it out unscathed. Say the Phantom is defeated, say she and Raoul can go forward, can leave this nightmare behind and have a life together. Say she wins her freedom. 

There is no real choice here. She will make one anyway. 

She gazes at Raoul, blinks several times. He is still looking at her intently, she can feel everyone in the room looking at her intently, but she has eyes only for him. His hands are warm in hers, warm and steadying and reassuring. His hands would never let any harm come to her. 

She must. She cannot. 

“Christine,” he says, softly. “I promised you before that I would never make you do anything you don’t want to, and I will keep that promise. The choice is yours, but I truly believe that this is our only hope. You are our only hope.” 

Damn him. _Damn him._ This is not a choice. Choosing between death by hanging or by firing squad is not a choice, it is a death sentence either way. She can condemn herself to the guilt of not helping, of resigning everyone to his anger, of his constant presence hanging over her, or she can condemn herself to the Phantom’s hands once more. She can condemn herself to the guilt of having a hand in his demise. There is no way forward that does not have him in it. 

They are all talking again, everyone is talking, saying her name, begging her to help them, begging her to risk her own life for only the slightest chance of victory. It is terrifying and overwhelming and all the sound makes her head spin and so she stands, throwing Raoul aside. 

“No,” she whispers. She has to leave. The angry tears in her eyes have turned into something much worse, tears of frustration and fear and despair, and she has to leave. “I can’t,” she says, tries to tell Raoul everything in her glance. _I can’t make this choice. I can’t do this here. Please don’t ask me to._ And then she turns tail and runs, letting the door slam shut behind her while Raoul calls her name. 

Her feet carry her to the foyer, to the grand stairs where just last night her Angel had revealed himself to her once more. She is suddenly very tired of everything, and so she stops, sinks to the ground. Her dress might get dirty, it is improper for the fiancée of a Vicomte to be sitting on the floor in public, to be crying in public, to be letting her emotions get the best of her like this, but she can’t help it. She buries her head in her hands, lets herself heave a sob.

She is angry. She has never been so angry. She has never felt so betrayed. Chiefly she is angry at Raoul, which is not something she has felt before. How dare he? How dare he look her in the eyes and ask her to make this choice, to choose between herself and herself, between the slimmest chance of living freely and a life of darkness? She knows that he thinks this will work, but it is only because he has not been listening. Because he thinks he can outwit her maestro, thinks himself smarter than this man who has lived in the world of cunning and trickery for far longer than Raoul has. 

She is angry at her Angel. She has been angry at him for so long without realizing it seems absurd. She is angry that he ever approached her to begin with, angry that he earned her trust, played her like an organ, learned her secrets and her dreams and her fears until he held her completely in his control. She is angry that he has cornered her into this as much as anyone else has, that he has made himself into the kind of villain that only she can vanquish. She is angry at the lengths to which he will go to ignore her wishes, angry that he would demand she sing, angry that he would write such an achingly beautiful and terrible role for her in his own life. How dare he? How dare he let her have her freedom and then swoop in to snatch it away from her once more, how dare he make her greatest love her own undoing, how dare he play on her childish desires for fame and love and turn them into something so sinister? 

Most of all, though, she is angry at herself. She has also been angry at herself for a long time, since long before she even knew her Angel, angry enough that this current surge does not feel so self-destructive as some of the others, just utterly defeating. She is angry that she has spent years allowing herself to be manipulated and controlled by this nebulous figure, allowed herself to have her freedom taken away from her, allowed herself to fall into this mess to begin with. She is angry at her stupidity, her naivety, angry that her youth and that foolish desire for love got the best of her. She is angry that she is both too selfless and too selfish to run, that she will throw herself back in harm’s way if there is the chance that they all—herself included—might be free of this nightmare at last. 

For she knows that she will say yes. There is no choice other than yes. She is desperate, she has to. However reluctant she is, however terrified and conflicted and agonized, she will say yes because she must. She must do this for all of them, she must do this for herself, she must do this because if there is even the smallest chance, even the barest hope that she can be free of this, she must take it.

And she must walk back into hell to reach it. 

She will have to do this. 

She is alone for maybe twenty minutes before she hears Raoul’s footsteps. She can always tell when it’s him walking towards her because he has a certain lilt to his walk. It is not unlike he is on a boat, commanding the floor like he’d command the deck of a ship, waiting for it to move out from under him. She hears him descending the stairs behind her, feels him moving her dress out of the way a bit so he can sit on the step next to her. She moves away from him a foot, like she’s a _child,_ and he sighs. 

“Don’t say anything,” Christine says, refusing to look at him. “I am so angry with you I cannot speak right now. If you say something, you will make it worse.”

He doesn’t, just waits in silence. This gets her. He has always only ever been obliging, been understanding when she has been difficult, encouraged her to make her own choices and supported her fully in each and every one. He has never ordered her to do anything, never made her do something she doesn’t want, and he isn’t even making her do this now. He is asking her to help him, asking her to face this evil with him—together, a team, in tandem—so that they can be free. _They_ can be free. And he is sitting here in silence because she is angry, he is letting her feel her emotions instead of quashing them, instead of ordering her to face him and making this choice for her. 

He is so unlike her Angel. 

“You must know,” she finally says, “that I cannot refuse. I will help you in this ridiculous quest because I have to, but know that I do not want to.” 

“If you don’t want to you don’t have to,” he says, quietly. “I will never make you do anything.” 

“I know,” she says, runs a hand through her hair. “I know you will not, and that is why I must.” He is silent, so she turns to look at him. His own head is in his hands, he will not look at her now. She is too angry to feel bad, though, and so she continues talking. “I want you to understand how much danger you are asking me to put myself in,” she says. “You say he is only a man like that means anything. Men are just as capable of horrors as gods. Men have done terrible things before. _He_ has done terrible things to me. But I will be your pawn, and I will be his prey, if it means that we might get the chance to live freely.” 

“I will do everything in my power to protect you,” Raoul says. His voice is thick, and when he looks at her his eyes are blazing, like the hottest part of a fire. “I promise.” 

“I know,” she says, reaches a hand for his and brings his fingers to her lips. “Just know that it might not be enough.” 

She stands, rests a hand on his shoulder briefly, and descends the stairs. She will walk herself home today, despite the bitter chill, will allow herself this last freedom before this nightmare begins once more. There are children playing outside, and the bells of Notre Dame ring in the distance. The first day of the new year is blessedly bright and dreadfully cold. It feels the same as the night before, the same as the day before that, the same as any other January day. If it is a new beginning, it certainly does not seem like it. 

 

* * *

 

The first time he comes to her, it is in a dream. How easy it is to let her guard down at night, how easy it is for him to slip between the cracks in the walls she has so carefully constructed during rehearsal. And how easy it is for him to make it seem like he never left. She dreams of his voice but it is strangely distorted, like she is hearing it from very far away. It drifts in and out like a lullaby, like an earache, settling in her brain and churning her thoughts, muddling the rest of her dreams into harmless little nightmares. 

The dreams are the sort of dreams where she can’t tell if she is awake or she is asleep, they’re the sort of dreams that when she comes to she sometimes forgets they even happened, they’re the sort of dreams that make her wonder if he really is there inside her mind or if she is truly dreaming him because she is so determined to ignore him in her waking hours. They’re the sort of dreams that make her wonder whether the two are really any different. 

It is agonizing, all of it. The way she doesn’t even realize it is happening, despite how hard she has worked to keep him out. Rehearsals have only been going for two weeks but they are terribly long days spent singing and dancing and blocking and in fittings for costumes. Christine has never, in all her time at the Opera Populaire, seen everybody so high strung. Everybody knew exactly who the composer was—those who hadn’t attended the Masquerade Ball had been told of the ordeal by those who had—and everyone is determined to make everything perfect. Monsieur Reyer seems on the verge of a nervous breakdown, yelling at the altos every other day over missed notes and weeping when Piangi mistakes a phrase, Madame Claude is obsessively ordering fabric samples and taking Christine’s measurements a thousand times, the Managers are present but not present at every rehearsal, seemingly terrified of the Phantom’s warning to remember their place but more terrified that something go wrong. 

Christine herself is withering. He has not come to her in person, yet, but it is clear from Monsieur Reyer’s face during their private rehearsals that something is not right, that she is out of practice. Never mind the fact that the role is incredibly difficult, that her Angel is a master composer with knowledge of music like no other earthly man and has poured it all into Aminta’s part. Everyone seems to know what is at stake here, despite nobody saying it aloud, and it falls to Christine to be perfect. She hardly speaks when she is not singing, drinks tea obsessively, practices her scales and her breathing and her posture in the mirror, pretends that she cannot feel his eyes on her all the time. It is not enough. 

He is there all the time. She has not seen him yet, but she keeps her head down. He is there in the knowledge of singing this part, knowing it was written for her. That is the most terrible thing. The music is beautiful, breathtaking even. It is the most difficult role she has ever sung, it stretches her range to where it was when she was having lessons every day with him, it demands excellence that she cannot find. She is torn between the desire to rebel and the fear of retaliation if she does, the want to stake some claim of her own on her life once more, to turn this character into her own creation, and the knowledge that it was created for her by a mastermind. It is beautiful and it is terrible, as beautiful things often are. 

The effort of ignoring him is tremendous, but it is nothing compared to the effort of warding off Raoul’s worry. He feels terrible, she sees this, but she has not yet brought herself to entirely forgive him for this. She knows it’s not really his fault, that she would have played this high stakes game even without his foolish plan, but it is hard to forgive him entirely. She needs someone to be angry with in person, and poor Raoul accepts her anger lovingly, like it is a gift. She feels terrible. 

She hates that the first weeks of their engagement are spent like this. He still spends the evenings with her, they dine together and she sips glasses of white wine while he watches keenly, keeping track or something. 

“How have you been?” he asks, one night. 

“Fine,” she says, pushing around the chicken on her plate with her fork. “Busy.”

“Yes,” he says, resting his chin on his hand and gazing at her. “I know. I’ve stopped by to see you but they won’t spare you for even a moment.” There is an unspoken agreement between them that Raoul will not come to the opera house more than he must. 

“Well,” she says, picking up her glass and twirling it by the stem, “being a leading lady is difficult work. I wonder how Carlotta has done it all these years.” 

“I have no doubt in your abilities,” he says, not unkindly. “You know that I think you have a terrific voice.” 

“Yes,” she says. “You’re not the only one.” 

Most of their conversations these days go this way. Terse, tinged with bitterness and anger, laced with secrets strange and sinister. They usually result in Raoul throwing up his hands and leaving the room to make himself a cup of tea—which he has taken to drinking now, weird in and of itself—and Christine slamming a door so that he knows she is upset. As if he does not already know she is upset, know her moods before he even walks through the door in the morning, know by the look in her eyes whether she is going to be argumentative or let him say his piece. 

It is terrible. She hates being mad at Raoul. She misses the way he used to smile at her every time she walks in the room, where now his expression is laced with apprehension. She misses the way he would catch her hand when they were walking, or how he likes to lounge on the sofa when the midafternoon sun shines through the window, beckoning to her while she reads on the nearby chair. She misses the ease of their love, how comfortable she is with him. 

Even still she would not trade him for anything. Their love has gotten harder, but that does not mean it has gotten less. Loving him still feels like the only surety in her life, like the only reason she can put herself through this ordeal. 

It is a long dark tunnel and sometimes there is a light at the end of it, sometimes there is not. 

Weeks drag on, reach a month, and still things are terrible. At the opera they are, if anything, worse. Monsieur Reyer is still displeased with everything and can be seen wandering the hallways with his waistcoat undone and hair standing on end, muttering about rehearsing in the presence of the composer and incompetent tenors. Madame Giry acts as a sort of police woman, striking her cane against the ground whenever anyone dares to say something ill of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ wandering rehearsals with a glint in her eye that makes everyone wonder whose side she is really on. Meg tries hard as she can to keep the dancers from saying terrible things about Christine, but it is no matter. Nearly everyone blames her for this mess. They all blame her and she can barely even sing the part. 

It is only a matter of time before she has to go back to him, and she knows this. She knows the he wrote this part with the intent of reigning her in once more. She knows that he has been biding his time, exhausting her with this waiting game of paranoia and tension, and when she is weak he will strike. She had only hoped that she would last longer. 

She has been avoiding her dressing room all this time. On the rare occasions that they get breaks and Madame Claude doesn’t need her for fittings, she spends the time outside in the bright January sun, drawing her cloak and her red scarf tightly around her and walking along the winding streets by the opera house. There is something haunting about the very idea of going back to that place that seems a portal to another world. It is, she knows, the final step. 

It is, she knows, the only way this plan will work. 

Still, she had only hoped that she would last longer. 

It is not that her voice is bad, by any stretch of the word. It is still beautiful, and regular rehearsals have strengthened it again to at least a good performance. Still, she knows she cannot settle for anything less than excellence. Not with so much riding on this performance. Not for she herself. She is standing at the front of the room one day by the piano, the chorus seated in chairs behind her, running the same section of Act II over and over again because she cannot get the run just right when finally she snaps. 

“I need a break,” she says, closing her libretto. 

“Miss Daaé!” cries Monsieur Reyer. “We haven’t the time, I’m afraid!” 

“No,” she insists. “I need a break. Rehearse something else while I’m gone.” 

“I—” he tries to interrupt, but she is already out the door, hurrying towards her dressing room. 

There is nowhere else to go. It is proving to be a wet February and the rain is falling thick and fast outside, and the opera house is consequently full of people. She doesn’t really think, her feet just take her there before she can contradict them. 

Dressing Room Thirteen is cold and dark, out of use for nearly seven months, and the lamps stutter before they come to life along the walls. Christine sinks onto the chaise and buries her face in her hands. This is all terrible. She has no choice, she knows this. He has always been excellent at making her think she has choices when really he has already decided, has manipulated her expertly. She takes a deep breath, exhales through her mouth, and lifts her head, gazing around her dressing room. She had used to seek refuge here, and now how it feels like a cage. She does not look at the mirror, looks everywhere but the mirror, as if that will make it exist less. Despite sitting empty for seven months it is still quite clean, as if someone had come in to dust and plump the pillows every week. She wonders who that was. Her vanity still holds her jewelry box and her set of stage makeup from the night of _Il Muto_ back in June, and she crosses the room to sit before it. 

These things are familiar, she thinks, as she brushes a layer of dust off the rouge container and checks her reflection in a little compact. She avoids looking at the reflection of the mirror behind her, avoids looking for him. She sifts through the tangled jewelry, unknots some of the necklaces and pairs the earrings in their little slots. It is all busywork, going through the motions of when this place felt like home rather than a strange liminal space. She opens the drawer, removes the photograph of her father. The frame is heavy and encrusted with fake jewels, a cheap thing made to look expensive, but the only photo she has of him. She sets it on her vanity, presses her fingers to it. How she misses him. 

The thing is, she is not sure what the rules of his game are anymore. He has not come to her, and that had frankly surprised her. She is not sure what she is waiting for, be it an invitation or a forced hand, only knows that the weight of making this choice herself has been keeping her up at night, has been at least partially responsible for the terrible nature of rehearsals, and has been the worst part of this process entirely. But she had wanted choice, and now he has given it to her. Or rather, he has given her an ultimatum disguised as a choice. 

Oh, how bitter indeed.

“I want to talk,” Christine finally says. She is too far down this road to feel foolish speaking to empty rooms, now. Not when she knows the rooms at the opera house are never really empty. 

Sure enough, he comes. He waits a moment, perhaps to give her the illusion of control, perhaps to debate whether or not he wants to torture her longer, but he comes. He always comes. “You want to talk,” he echoes. 

“Yes,” Christine says, resolutely quashing the slight tremor in the base of her stomach. It feels like the gentle beat of a moth’s wings. 

“And what would you like to talk about?” he says. His voice is so beautiful, so wicked and sinister and beautiful. She forces these thoughts out of her head, forces herself to return to her problem at hand. 

“I want to resume my lessons,” she says. 

“Oh?” he asks. It is coy, it is playful, it is cruel. 

“Don’t act like you aren’t surprised,” she snaps. “Don’t act like this isn’t what you’ve been wanting all this time.”

“I have missed you, my angel,” he says, so sweetly, and she struggles not to choke on his words. Struggles not to let them gag her throat like when a wave knocks you down on the ocean and you swallow the seawater, struggles not to let it scrape all her resolutions from her mind. “I would be lying if I said I did not want you to resume your lessons, and I do not like to lie to you. But it has always been your choice. This arrangement has always been up to you.” 

She wants to believe it. She doesn’t, but she wants to. Another part of her wants to tell him how wrong he is, to tell him that this has never been up to her and that every word that has ever left his mouth has been a lie, to tell him how he has hurt her and betrayed her and how she cannot sleep without him and how she has missed him so, missed when things were easy and simple, despite how wrong they were. She does not look at the mirror, does not let him see these emotions flash across her face. Will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he has gotten to her. 

“I want to resume my lessons,” she says, because playing it safe is infinitely smarter than fighting with him. “But I want there to be conditions.” 

“You want to strike another deal,” he says. It is not a question. There is an edge to his voice, shining and dangerous as a freshly sharpened blade. “After you so cruelly broke our last one. You realize, of course, that all bets are off, don’t you? I could hurt your precious _fiancé_ —” his voice drips with disdain here “—at any time I’d like.” 

“You won’t,” she says. It is as dangerous a proclamation as she dares. “Because I am returning to you again. I am performing in your opera, I am doing everything you have ever asked.”

“And yet somehow it seems as if you are going to ask for more,” he muses. 

“All I ask is of you is for my thoughts to be my own,” she says. “For you to be my teacher, and nothing more.” 

“Your thoughts have always been your own, my angel,” he says, and there it is again. That sickly sweet wave of nausea that almost forces her to forget that he is lying, lying, lying. 

She bites her tongue. “Then let them stay that way,” she says. 

“This is your last deal,” he says. “You will return to your lessons once more, you will keep my secrets, and I will spare your Vicomte and—” his voice turns snide, “— _your thoughts._ ” 

“A deal, then,” she says. “I must return to rehearsal.” 

“You will come to me tonight,” he says, before she can stand. “You will come prepared to sing. We have much to fix.” 

The thing is, she does not entirely know what she has agreed to, only that it cannot be good. Only that she cannot possibly have asked for more, not after everything, not when she is already walking a fine line. She only knows that when she returns to rehearsal it is with the heavy knowledge that things will get both better and infinitely worse. She only knows that she is distracted as she sips her wine during dinner that night, distracted by the vastness of this secret she must keep once more from Raoul, who gazes at her with concern. She only knows that when her head hits the pillow she falls asleep swiftly and easily, to the haunting tune of a nearby lullaby. If any of this strikes fear into her heart, she must learn to live with it. She has made her choice.

 

* * *

 

He keeps his promise for the most part, she thinks. Raoul goes unharmed, never even sees evidence of his Ghostly presence, watches Christine with a hawk’s eye but does not make any accusations. He suspects, she is sure he does, that she has returned to her former teacher, but he has no way of knowing that she has not been tricked into this, that she has willingly walked back into the arms of fate.

Her thoughts are another matter. It is more so perhaps weakness on her part than insistence on his that it has become such a constant battle. His voice is a drug, it is more potent than morphine, than opium, more powerful even than the desire for freedom. It is so hard to think when he speaks to her, so hard to do anything other than steal covert glances at the mirror, than dream of taking his hand and plunging once more with him into darkness. 

To his credit, she is willing to believe it is her natural inclination towards him rather than any actual action on his part that makes this so difficult. He keeps her promise and she only sees him—hears him, rather—during their lessons. They are grueling lessons, they exhaust her body and mind from the effort of singing and the effort of resisting the pull of his voice, the sweet gratification of his praise, but they are only lessons. He does not harass her, does not come to her in her mind the way he used to, does not call to her and try to control her, but he also does not need to when her mind will do all those things for him. She thinks she sees things in the shadows when he’s not there, jumps at slight noises during rehearsals and is constantly looking over her shoulder, constantly scanning her thoughts for something out of place. Things spiral so quickly, the way they did in the run-up to _Il Muto,_ only they get so much worse. Her paranoia is her own worst enemy this time. She has only herself to blame. 

He comments on it during their lessons, and she grits her teeth and wills herself to not rise to the bait.

“Your Vicomte is not taking care of you,” he says. He never calls him her fiancé, never calls him Raoul. For that she is thankful. Those words do not belong on his sinful lips.

“It is not his job to take care of me,” she says. “I can do that myself.” 

“You are doing a terrible job,” he tuts. “When is the last time you ate?” There is tenderness in the question, it sends a wave of longing through her heart, a wave of nostalgia for when he was the one who had taken care of her. She almost feels bad for him, thinks about how lonely he must have been all his life, must still be, apart from both gods and men, a fallen angel. She fights these thoughts back like a man fighting back a lion—savagely, and to her own grievous injury. 

The last time she ate was ages ago, probably. She is so anxious all the time she can yet again scarcely bring herself to swallow more than tea to soothe her overworked throat and enough food that she can stay standing during rehearsal. Madame Claude tuts at her weight loss but takes in her costumes nonetheless, buys more makeup to cover the bags under her eyes. She has not slept in about as long, terrified to let her guard down in her sleep and let him slip between the cracks once more. She will not let him in if it kills her, but at this rate it really might. 

They have conversations like this often; he insinuates that she needs him, he teases and tortures her with long silences and the false pretense of absence when she has always been able to sense his presence, when she can feel his eyes burning holes into her back. It is a cruel game; if he cannot have her thoughts then she cannot have them either. He will deprive her of everything she holds dear, it seems, in this nebulous quest to consume her that she cannot completely comprehend. She cannot tell Raoul for fear he will do something rash, she cannot sleep, she cannot eat, she cannot find any peace in any moment anymore. 

She is not the only one who is exhausted and withering, though. This scenario has taken its toll on Raoul, too, she can see it. His eyes so rarely are the bright and lovely color of bluebirds, but they harbor deep shadows and he retreats into moody silences more and more often. The worst of it all is the loneliness, Christine thinks. This would not be half as hard if she could voice the terrible thoughts she is having—the thoughts that perhaps she should just give in to her Angel’s power and succumb to his darkness once more—and perhaps Raoul would ease up on himself if he knew how much she doesn’t blame him anymore. 

There are late nights, many of them, where Philippe falls asleep in an armchair by the fire while Raoul sifts through papers and cheques and blueprints, running his hands back and forth through his hair until it stands up straight. She wants nothing more than to go to him, to replace his hands with her own, to remind him how much she loves him and to tell him everything. She hates keeping secrets from him. 

She still cannot bring herself to say it, though. She has learned how easy it is to say everything when she starts talking, just as she has learned how impossible it is to resist her Angel’s pull once she has let him in even the tiniest bit. Nobody can know about this battle she is fighting, this war she is waging in every corner of her mind, this tremendous effort to keep him at bay that she has undertaken. The silences stretch between her and Raoul like chasms, their touches feel devoid of any warmth. But still he stays by her side, still he visits her every day and does whatever he can, fixing cups of tea and reading to her, staying while she sleeps. Even if these actions are riddled with unspoken things, they remind her how much he loves her. How much she loves him. It is the only thing she feels anymore other than utter exhaustion.

It gets to the point where the very music begins to grate against her. Singing does not bring her joy, it has become devoid of anything powerful or lovely or soothing. It is entirely mechanical, and though rehearsals have gotten better over the past two months as her voice has improved again and her lessons have paid off, still the thought of them fills her with dread. Every word she sings has been carefully crafted for her, every note and every phrase, every spiraling aria and seductive duet. It is a cruel play on who she is. She cannot even appreciate how incredible _Don Juan Triumphant_ is, it fills her with such rage. 

Her costumes are dreadful. They are beautiful, yes, stunningly so—of course he has an eye for costuming, too—but they fill her with anxiety, like this whole thing does. The colors are too bright, the lace too gaudy, the necklines are far too low and the skirts far too short, and she knows for whose benefit this all is. She is left wishing they covered more, feeling as if she is going to appear like a fool on stage. She cannot even reconcile them with playing a character when she knows how the character has been written for her. Is this who she is to him? This object of desire? 

It is infuriating, but she is too exhausted to be infuriated. It is everything she can do as the days drag on to keep upright, to make it through rehearsal and lessons and home again before she falls into a fitful sleep on the sofa, because somehow that feels safer than the softness of her bed. If she is uncomfortable that will keep the dreams at bay. 

She has made a mistake, she is certain. She never should have let him in again. He has consumed her too thoroughly in the past for his residual presence to not do it again. He does not need to do the work himself when she will do it for him. She is confused, torn between hating him and loving him, overcome by pity for him, desperate for some relief. She just wants some clarity, some answers, some end to this dreadful haze that is so similar to the one of days past but also so different. She wishes that things could be like they were before but dreads the very thought of them. She daydreams about just giving in, and snaps herself out of it with thoughts of Raoul and the knowledge that if she does this, if she deals with it all, she might come out victorious on the other side. 

That knowledge is not enough. 

“I’m tired,” she says one evening as he is coaching her through scales. 

“Stand up straighter,” he replies. She complies, because his orders are meant to be followed. “Do it again.”

“I’m _tired_ ,” she repeats. 

“I didn’t ask if you were tired,” he says, sweetly and smoothly, “I told you to do it again, my angel.” She closes her eyes. It is so sweet and soft, it is like a down pillow, it is like a cloud. She falls into it, lets the weariness leave her bones for a moment, lets his voice pull a scale from her again. “Good,” he purrs, in a way that washes over and leaves her feeling warm and fuzzy. 

“I’m tired,” she says again, swaying on the spot. 

“I know,” he says. “You have been working so hard for me, lately. I can see it, my angel.” How sweet. It has been so long since they have had a pleasant conversation. “You always work so hard for me,” he says, continuing. His voice is warm, it is like tea. It soothes her aching mind, loosens her muscles. How nice it would be to spend her life like this forever.

Forever. She had promised Raoul forever, and his face floods her mind like sunlight. She pulls herself back to reality. It is a tremendous feat, like bursting through the surface of warm water and into the freezing cold of midwinter, but she gasps and falls to the ground. 

“Stop,” she says. “Stop it.” The room is spinning. 

There is no answer.

These moments make her worry. They come more and more often. She can never decide whether or not she dreamt them. She cannot resist him always, she is exhausted, she is alone, she is fighting this monster without any help. People eye her during rehearsals, once or twice Monsieur Reyer makes to say something but she stops him with a hand. It is her price to pay. 

The full cast rehearsals are the most grueling. Carlotta is an absolute nightmare, making snide comments about Christine’s singing ability and her appearance, worse comments about the music and her role. She is the only one that Madame Giry cannot keep in line, and every time it happens Christine tenses in fear that her Angel will make himself known to them all. She does not want that to happen. She thinks that if she has to acknowledge his presence before everyone else, she will crumble. He seems resolute to keep his distance from the opera; it is altogether more terrifying to not know where one stands with him, this she knows for certain, and it is how he is controlling the population. Still, she knows that he can hear them always, and she is not the only one. Madame Giry clears her throat, strikes her cane, stops any comments before they can get out of hand. Still, the thought causes Christine dread, because she knows he will take it out on her.

It is during one such of these grueling full cast rehearsals that Christine thinks she is going to die. She has been on her feet all day and her head is pounding, each note that Monsieur Reyer plays on the piano sends her brain rattling in her skull and each discordant chord from the chorus sets her teeth on edge. Piangi is trying his best, truly, but he is messing up one singular phrase over and over again, and Christine is going to lose her mind. 

“Take a seat,” Monsieur Reyer mumbles, and she leaves the side of the piano to sink into her seat next to Piangi. Carlotta makes an indignant sniff and turns her head as Monsieur Reyer continues to chastise Piangi. “The phrase is ‘those who tangle with Don Juan,’ Signor,” he sighs, plunking the notes on the keys once more. 

“ _Those who tangle with Don Juan,_ ” Piangi sings, and Christine visibly cringes. 

“Not quite, Signor,” Monsieur Reyer says. He sounds close to tears. 

“Who cares?” Carlotta snaps. “He sings it better. At least it sounds like music, when he sings it.” 

“Signora,” Madame Giry says, her voice cold, “would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?” 

“The composer is not present,” Carlotta says, and Christine feels that familiar fear begin to bubble in her chest. “But if he were,” she carries on, and now Christine is the one near tears, “I would say—” 

“Signora,” Madame Giry says, at the same time as Monsieur Reyer begins to play the piano again. 

“One more time, Signor,” he calls, “like so: ‘ _Those who tangle with Don Juan.’”_  

“ _Those who tangle with Don Juan!”_ Wrong again, and Christine leans forward. 

“Signor, if I may,” she says, kindly. Anything to make this stop. She tries to ignore Carlotta’s quiet diatribe about this terrible opera and runs the phrase over again with Piangi, stressing the vowel. Madame Giry is trying to silence Carlotta and the rest of the chorus is gossiping, the whispers filling Christine with further dread as she tries again and again to teach Piangi the phrase. Monsieur Reyer is calling for quiet and playing the piano, which, surprisingly, is effective in silencing the room. Christine turns to look at him for instruction once more but he is not looking at her, and he is not at the piano, which seems to be playing by itself. A chill falls over Christine as everybody present watches the horrible melody traverse the keys, back and forth, up and down, and then looks to her.

Of course they look to her. Everybody knows—has known for months, now—the strange relationship she has with the Ghost. It is her fault that he has come to them today, not Carlotta’s or Piangi’s, not the fault of the chorus, but entirely Christine’s. She is, of course, the one who is to keep him in check. The one to put herself in harm’s way again and again so that he does not unleash his wrath upon them all. Christine stands, automatically, and hurries to her dressing room, running full tilt once she is away from the stage. Nobody stops her. She was right in thinking that his concrete presence at rehearsal would upset her so, but it is far worse than she ever imagined. She is full of fear but mostly she is full of rage that she has been playing this game for two long, agonizing months, and still he is going to play tricks and tease her with his half presence, remind the world that he owns her completely and that they are all at his mercy masquerading as her mercy. 

He has turned everyone against her. He has taken Raoul from her, stripped her of the pleasure of her engagement, made it so she can only sleep and eat at his will, controlled all of her movements in every aspect of her life. He has isolated her from Meg, from Madame Giry, from the Managers, martyred her and left her at the mercy of her own wicked thoughts. 

She has had enough. 

“Why are you doing this?” she gasps, bursting through the dressing room door and heaving several deep breaths as she leans against it. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” 

“We made a deal,” he says, easily. Of course he beat her here. “Or do you want an out, my angel?” 

“I am not your angel!” she yells. “You have taken everything from me!” 

“I have given you the world,” he replies, calm as ever. 

This should infuriate her. This world he has given her is a sham, it is a lie, everything is a lie, she should be angry but the tremendous effort of fighting him has become too much. A great sob racks her body and she moves from the door, catches herself against the vanity. It is all too much. She wants to give in, wants to go with him, wants whatever death will give her an end to this dreadful nightmare. She is ready. 

Only she is not. Only she has so much left to do. Only she has Raoul, and a life, and a future, if only she has an out. Her vision is clouded, has been for a long time, by this secret and strange and _sinister_ angel that has turned her life into a waking nightmare. She catches sight of her father’s image on her vanity, that smiling and serene face staring back at her, and a sudden surge of anger grips her. Anger at him, anger at her Angel, anger at herself. They are all at fault here. 

“You are lying,” she says, steady as she can. 

“I am not,” he sighs. “You are lost.” 

“I am not!” she says. In a swift motion she picks up the heavy portrait of her father and lobs it at the mirror. The corner of the frame strikes the center of the mirror and the whole thing shatters, sending glass everywhere. She half expects her Angel to be standing behind it, ready to seize her and drag her back to the underworld, to put an end to both of their solitude, but it is just the regular back to a mirror. With a strangled sob Christine seizes her blue cloak and her red scarf from her rack, fastens them around her neck, and runs out the door. 

If she is running to something or away from something, she is not sure the difference really matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sword fight, per request, and a reminder that the dead are willing to speak, if only we are willing to give them blood

When she had been a child, her father had been her only friend. It had been the two of them traveling the continent, taking solace in each other’s companionship after her mother’s death, alone together. He had told her stories and she had loved him for them; he had promised her the Angel of Music. For a long time it had seemed that he himself was the Angel, his beautiful melodies filling her mind with music, drifting through the halls of wherever they were staying and making the air hum with potential. He had been lively, bright, warm and gentle the way an angel should be. He had worn long coats in strange colors that billowed behind him when we walked, bright cravats in stranger colors. He had loved his derby hat, had always stuck feathers or flowers or pieces of paper in the ribbon that lined it. He had always stopped to talk with people on the street, old men playing dominoes and children who thought he was a fictional character come to life. He had obliged anyone and everyone with a song, drawing large crowds on the streets and in town squares as he played his violin and Christine had stomped her feet and twirled in time to the music. He had been the most vibrant person she’d ever known, the most loved and loving person she had ever known.

Only that’s not entirely true. She had been the most loved person she had ever known, because Gustave Daaé had loved his daughter so very much more than his own life. He had taught her to sing, had held her on his lap and pressed her fingers into the strings of his violin, guided her arm with his own so they could make lovely music together. He had sat on the edge of her bed until she had fallen asleep every night, humming soft lullabies of his own composition that belonged entirely to them, never transcribed or shared with the rest of the world. Their music was their own soft and sweet secret, a light on all the long carriage rides across Europe after they left Sweden, a shining jewel of her childhood.

But then he had died, and he had left her alone. He had ruined her life with his death, shattered her world and her will to live. Close enough to adulthood to fend for herself, but already ruined by fifteen blessed and beautiful years with him as her closest friend. How cruel it was, to show up on the doorstep of the opera house an orphan, to not have him to share in any of her triumphs and sadnesses. But still she, a fool, had forced him to stay. She had kept him alive in a sham, forced his ghost to speak by offering up her blood, thinking that if she dreamed him into existence he would really come back. And that had been her gravest mistake, making a life out of someone dead. 

And cruel it is, now, that her memories of him have been tainted by the wickedness of the past two years. She knows it is not his fault—knows it is nobody’s fault but her own, really—but she cannot help but think that if he had never told her those stories, if he has never promised her an Angel of Music, if he had never died to begin with, this never would have happened. She never would have been left more alone than she started, more dead than alive, more trapped than ever before. 

It is cruel of her to be having these thoughts, she thinks, resting her head against the window of the cab as it trundles away from the opera house. Still, she cannot help them. She wants anyone to blame but her own naivety, though she knows she has no one. If she hadn’t been so desperate for her father’s return, if she hadn’t been so foolish as to listen to strange voices in the opera house. If she hadn’t allowed a man to manipulate her, caught in the clutches of her grief. If she had only ever let her father rest in peace, instead of being insistent upon keeping him alive in this gruesome, twisted fantasy of hers. 

She has not been to her father’s grave since his funeral, nearly four and a half years ago now. She had not been able to bring herself to visit it in those months—years—immediately following his death, for fear that it would make everything dreadfully concrete, and once she had become involved with her Angel she had not left the opera house at all. Even in this year with Raoul she has not gone, not asked him to take her there, because she has not thought herself ready to confront him. She has so much to say. 

Père Lachaise is beautiful, even in this gray evening in late March. The light snow that is falling—late for the year—coats everything in an eerie layer of pristine white, in a muffling silence. It is empty, because nobody is visiting the dead in the dark and the cold, not when they could be bringing them flowers during the day and rejoicing in their memories, but it is better this way. Christine will have some privacy on this grim errand. 

The cab drops her off at the front entrance and she slips him a few francs. He offers to wait, looking at her with concerned eyes, but she shakes her head. She does not know how long she will be here, does not even know if she will find her way out again. She watches as he spurs the horses and they disappear down the deserted street, into twilight. When she is certain he has gone she turns to the gates, takes a deep breath, and slips in.

How strange she feels in this blue cloak and red scarf of hers, bright and vibrant in the dim light compared to the imposing stone monuments that surround her. She gazes up into their faces, weeping women and avenging grim reapers with scythes and cloaks, likenesses of people apart and remnants of someone’s life. They seem the wrong companions for someone as full of life as her father, someone who had never worn gray a day in his life. How can he be here? How can he be so alone? It sends a chill down her spine and she draws her cloak tighter around her, wraps her scarf once more around her neck. It smells like Raoul. 

She remembers the way to her father’s grave eerily well, like she has been treading this path for months instead of walking it for the first time. Her solitude presses in on her, weighs on her shoulders like her stone companions are turning to watch her in her wake, but she ignores that feeling and presses on. She is afraid that if she dwells too much on the gooseflesh peppering her arms she will lose her nerve and turn around. She has too much to say to do that. 

His grave is more modest than some of the surrounding ones, a simple stone tomb with DAAÉ embossed in large letters, a date of birth and a date of death beneath it, a quotation in Swedish that she does not remember even choosing, much less what it says. It is encased with a plain mausoleum that is adorned with a large cross on top that has been consumed with ivy, a spot of green even in the darkness as the sun sets. The structure sits atop a small hill, though, the plot a gift from a dear supporter of her father’s music career who thought he deserved a beautiful view, even in death. There are stone steps leading to the dais upon which sits the tomb itself, and as Christine begins to climb these, the rest of the mausoleums and monuments seem to fade away. There is only her and her father, as it has always been. Her heart aches. 

She touches it. The stone is cold against her fingertips, cold beneath the palm of her hand as she rests it atop the lid to his tomb. The cold sends a shock of clarity through her, though. She knows without a doubt that he is in this tomb, gone from this world. 

The silence is weighted. She barely dares to breathe as she stares at the tomb that hides her father’s body from her, hides his singular nice black suit that somebody—not she—had insisted he be buried in, hides his violin that had gone in the ground with him. That _had_ been at her request. Surely he is only bones, now, crumbled ashes of a life well lived. _From dust thou art, to dust thou shall return._ It is all too much, she feels the overwhelming urge to _leave_ this place and never come back, to keep running until she, too, is dust, until she never has to think or grieve or hurt or feel anything ever again. 

But she stays. She stills her wildly beating heart with a few steadying breaths, and she faces her father’s grave with her back straight and her chin up. She must. 

“Father,” she says. Her voice rings like a bell tolling in the silence, stark and clear against the stones. “I miss you.” It is the truth. Angry as she is, hurt and betrayed and confused by these twists and turns of events, she misses him so much she feels like she could die from the pain of it. He never would have let this happen, he would have the answers. If only she could speak to him and he would speak to her in return, if only she could hear his voice one more time, if only she could ask him why this had happened, how things had gone so wrong. If only she could know for certain what path she is meant to walk, whether he would begrudge her turning her back on all of this, begrudge her finding happiness even if it is not on stage like they always dreamt, together. 

“Why did you do this?” she whispers. “Why did you send me this Angel? Did you know? Was this some kind of test? Is this everything you’ve ever wanted for me?” It can’t be. She knows that it can’t be. “It’s terrible,” she says. “I’m so confused, because this can’t be how it was supposed to go. Not this terrible haze and fear, not the paranoia, not years spent a prisoner.” 

The tears on her lips are salty, and come as a shock to her. She has been fighting them back for so long, for the past months of her renewed relationship with her Angel but really for much longer, since her father’s very funeral. She has shed them only when it has been appropriate, only a few at a time, but now they are falling thick and fast, running tracks over her cheeks and splashing onto the stone before her feet. These are not dry sobs that rack her body, not the sort of tears that make her eyes sparkle and then stop, they are real and earnest rivers from her heart, pouring forth all these pent up feelings of the past four years, all her grief and anger and bitterness and longing. 

And perhaps they will finally allow this to end. Perhaps this is what she needs, these tears at her father’s grave side, this catharsis of all her pain, to see his tomb one more time and to know definitively that he lies within it and does not haunt her. Perhaps this is what she needs to close this chapter of her life, to find it in her to move on, to live her life with his memories stored inside her but not plaguing her silently. To stop feeling the grief and the anger and the rage and to feel the joy at having had the time she did, to stop blaming him for this Angel of Music nonsense and to put a stop to it already. To let him go at last, to set aside this foolish desire to force him to be something he is not and to let him rest in peace. To stop wasting her life and say goodbye.

“I’ve had enough,” she gasps. “I’ve had enough of all this. I want to live, and I want to do it right. I forgive you, father,” she says, and she really, truly means it, “I forgive you, and I will stop keeping you here. You can go, now. I am setting you free. I am setting myself free.” 

It’s what she has to do, isn’t it? She has been plagued by these feelings, existing in a world apart from everyone else because she has been so insistent on playing the game like she can have both life and death. Life was only ever meant for the living, though, and death is less a punishment and more an inescapable promise of something else. She will not begrudge him his something else any longer, and she will not let some foolish image of what she thinks he is hold her back from anything she might want. She knows her father, knows that above all he had wanted her to be happy. He would never have asked this of her. She will not blame him any longer. She will only do what it takes to bring an end to everything. 

It is not surprising that her declaration is met with silence. Ghosts do not have voices, after all. The dead are not capable of speech. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

What she wouldn’t give to hear him just once, what she wouldn’t give to hear his voice, even if all it had to say was goodbye. 

She bows her head and turns, makes to descend the steps and begin the long journey back to the world of the living, her heart not exactly lighter but certainly less clouded than before. Now she knows for certain that he is dead and gone, now she has laid a hand on his tomb and felt its coldness, felt with surety that he lies within it, dead and gone but not forgotten. It is time to move on, it is time to try to make a life for herself beyond this terrible cage of grief. 

“Wandering child,” whispers the wind when she almost reaches the path, her foot on the last step. 

She stops, stands as still as she can, doesn’t dare to breathe. She is imagining it. She must be. She had been yearning to hear his voice, desperate for some confirmation that he had listened, and now she is dreaming things. How cruel of her subconscious. She takes another step, leaves the stairs behind her. 

“Are you lost?” comes the wind, and Christine stills again. She cannot be imagining this. The wind does not speak, it howls. The wind does not address her. The wind does not have eyes that burn her back with their gaze. “Helpless, yearning for my guidance once more?” 

She is. She is all of those things. She is desperate to hear her father, desperate for some adult to give her direction, desperate to not feel so lost and alone and fearful. But this voice cannot be her father. She knows it cannot be her father because she knows her father does not have a voice any longer. What’s more, she knows this voice cannot be her father because she knows it intimately, knows it in a way she has never known her father’s voice. 

Still, it tugs at her heart. It could be, if she let it. It could be her father’s voice, if she only wanted it. Angel or father, friend or phantom, what is the difference, really? It’s only a matter of semantics, and she is much too tired to think about them anymore. 

“Who’s there?” she calls, not daring to turn around. “I can feel you watching me.” 

“Have you really forgotten your Angel?” comes the voice, so soft and beautiful. She has. She really and truly has. The past few months, the fear and the terror, the fighting and the exhaustion have wiped those fond memories of him from her brain, but they come rushing back now. How can she have forgotten his kindness, his guidance, his guardianship? How can she have forgotten the way he protected her, the way he saw her, the way he heard her and came for her and changed her life? These things are so beautiful, so sweet like opium, and she is raw and she is vulnerable here, standing before her father’s grave. 

“Angel,” she breathes. “It’s you.” 

“That’s right,” comes the voice, so sweet and kind and warm like a breeze in the chill of the night. It is full of longing, full of yearning. How he has missed her and how she has missed him, how she wishes to put aside all feelings of anger and revulsion and go back to his arms, let him have her and be done with this fighting, give in to that blessed darkness. 

“Speak,” she says, desperate to hear more. Even just another word.

“How long you’ve wandered, lost and alone,” he murmurs. It is like he is standing beside her. “You’ve strayed from me, my angel, into the cold. Won’t you return to me? Won’t you return to my arms? To my fathering gaze?” It is all she has wanted. Her father, her Angel, whatever, just someone to protect her. 

Some part of her is screaming against this. Something in the back of her mind is beating wildly to the tune of her heartbeat, thundering like a herd of galloping horses, saying _no, no, no, no, no,_ but she cannot bring herself to listen to it. It fades away, background noise, to the sound her soul is making. _Yes,_ it says, _yes of course I will return, yes of course I need you, yes, yes, yes._ It is like he has hooked her soul, is drawing her forward from the back of her chest, like she doesn’t have a choice. She cannot resist any longer. She is so tired. She is so tired of fighting, she is so tired of holding back. She has been so foolish for so long, pretending like he’s ever had anything other than her best interests at heart, pretending like he’s the enemy when he is so clearly the answer. She is so tired of this battle, so tired of resisting his pull when to go to him is to live in blessed music for the rest of her life, to be safe and warm and to never have to think or to fight or to hurt any longer. She is going to give in. She is going to obey. 

“Angel,” she says, “I was a fool to deny you. I was a fool to turn from you, from true beauty.”

“You were,” he says. “You were a fool, but your Angel is forgiving.”

“Yes,” she says, “You are forgiving. You are good. You are my protector.”

“I am,” he says, “do not run from me. Come to your Angel.”

She turns at last, abandons caution and searches him out in the darkness. He is there as he always has been, a darker spot of night against the black of the sky, waiting by the ivy-covered cross like the greatest angel, cloak and wide brimmed hat and mask distinguishing him from all the pitiful, mournful, lesser angels that surround him. Her eyes are drawn to him, her soul is drawn to him. She extends hand, takes a step towards him.

“I am coming,” she says. She is. There is no thought in her head other than him, and that is how it should be. She needs nothing else other than him, how foolish she has been to deny it all this time. Her father, her Angel, it doesn’t make a difference anymore, one and the same they are and she needs him, needs whatever protection he can offer her, whatever guidance he has to give. The violently angry part of her brain has fallen silent, swept away by the waves of fog that roll in with his voice.

He is singing, how curiously strange and lovely. It has been so many months since she has heard him sing, and it is more beautiful than she remembers. _“I am your Angel of Music,”_ he sings, and she takes another step towards him, reaches for his outstretched hand. Of course he is. _“Come to me, Angel of Music.”_ Yes, of course. Of course she will.

She is not so far, now, only steps from him. He is atop the mausoleum, how he did that she does not know but she also does not care, stranger things have happened, she only cares that her hand is in his and he sweeps her away from this torment, this terrible exhaustion and weariness, the harshness of this solitude.

“Christine!” someone calls. How curiously strange, she is not alone. It annoys her, vaguely, worries its way through the haze and like it is shining a light into her eyes. “Christine, listen to me!” Listen to who? She wants to listen to no one other than her Angel, who is still singing, insistently beckoning her to him, his eyes holding her own. “Whatever you think, whatever he’s told you,” comes the voice again, louder than before, “this man—this _thing—_ is not your father!” Not her father? It doesn’t matter. He is and he is not her father, she has decided that these things are not a matter of concern for this moment, though. “Let her go,” the voice is screaming, raw and terrible like she has never heard that voice scream before—and she _has_ heard that voice before, but she cannot place it—and she does not like it. “For God’s sake let her go! _Christine!”_

Oh. _Oh._ That voice is Raoul, she realizes, that voice is Raoul. It is Raoul who is screaming, Raoul who is just behind her, Raoul who has found her even though she had not told anyone where she was going, Raoul who has come to rescue her again. He floods her mind with startling brightness, startling clarity, and she jerks out of her trance.

What is she doing? She is standing at the top of the steps, just below the mausoleum, her hand curiously out stretched and merely a meter from another hand, ungloved and wearing a curious ring on his pinky finger. She has seen that ring before.

 _Oh._ It is with vaguely unfocused eyes that she gazes at the Phantom before her, who is no longer singing but whose gazed is still fixed on her, whose hand is still outstretched. He is terrible and striking to behold, here, outside the haunted halls of the opera house, beyond the confines of where she thought she was in danger, having followed her into unknown territory.

“Raoul!” Christine screams, suddenly terribly aware of the entire situation. She breaks eye contact with the Phantom and he makes a guttural noise of rage. She runs to Raoul, who is standing a few steps before her in utter distress, not wearing a coat or a hat and with a sword—a what?—strapped to his waist. He catches her the way he always does, spinning her away from the Phantom. She grasps his face to make sure he is real, presses her lips to his.

“Bravo, Monsieur!” cries the Phantom behind them, and they both turn to look. “Such spirited words!” Christine is frozen with dread, terrified at her Angel addressing her Raoul, this is the worst thing she could imagine. Her Angel leaps from the top of the tomb and suddenly he is standing before them, his own sword drawn and pointed at Raoul’s throat. Christine yelps and drags Raoul out of the way. When she turns again he has disappeared, seemingly into thin air.

“More tricks, Monsieur?” Raoul calls, blocking Christine’s body with his own as she tries to drag him backwards. “More smoke and mirrors?”

The Phantom leaps from the tomb, lunges again. He comes so close Christine can feel a breath of air on her cheeks and she gasps, but Raoul parries the strike and pushes her backwards. “I wouldn’t run, if I were you,” sneers the Phantom as Christine takes a step back.

She does not dare stray too far, does not dare run in case the Phantom follows, in case he is a better sword fighter than she would have thought of him, in case something terrible happens. Raoul tries not to leave her side but the Phantom draws him out with taunting laughter and darting strikes of his rapier, but Raoul is no slouch. He meets the Phantom at every blow, balances offense and defense fluidly, dances around Christine to keep her Angel at bay. It seems they are fenced in, trapped by this specter more mystery than man, more shadow than concrete form. For such a skeletal man he is wickedly fast and terribly threatening, looming before them every time they turn, laughing wickedly and reaching for at every breath.

“Deception and violence!” Raoul growls. “That’s all you’re good for? You cannot win her love by making her your prisoner!” He dodges another lunge and the Phantom’s sword strikes a tombstone with an awful screech.

“Come closer,” the Phantom teases, laughing. It is a terribly chilling sound, but more terrible is that Raoul listens. He leaps forward, misses only by inches. “Come closer, Monsieur, come as close as you dare!”

“Raoul,” Christine cries, dragging him backwards. “Raoul stop!” Only Raoul is insistent on taking his chance, desperate to win now that he at last has the Phantom in his sight once more.

“Raoul,” he calls, in a high mimicry of Christine’s own panicked voice. “Raoul stop!” Christine throws up her hands as he appears again, slashes at Raoul’s shirt. She stifles a scream as a burst of red blooms on Raoul’s arm, as the Phantom chases them, taunts them. “I’m here,” he calls, when he is not, “I’m here! The Angel of Darkness! The Angel of Death!”

“Let us _go!”_ she cries, a terrible sound.

And suddenly he is gone, only he can’t be so far gone because she swears she can still hear his cruel laughter on the wind. She doesn’t care, she takes the chance and runs, drags Raoul, who is dazed and blinking confusedly, after her.

“Don’t stop,” she moans, pulling harder on his elbow. “Let’s _go._ ”

“Don’t stop!” calls the Phantom but she ignores it, pushing Raoul ahead of her. Finally he understands, takes her arm and runs, pulling her after him as they give flight into the darkness, hearts keeping time to the pounding of their feet on the pavement, ragged breaths sawing through their lungs lost immediately to the howling of the wind.

They don’t stop running until they reach the gates, where a horse is tied to the bars. Even then Raoul does not stop to catch his breath, does not let Christine lean against him for a moment to press a hand to the stitch in her side, but stoops to a knee and offers his hands as a platform. She obliges without thinking and he boosts her up, following a second later and securing her in his arms before he spurs the horse on.

The air is cold as it whips by her as the horse charges through the streets of Paris, Raoul not giving it a break until they are far from Père Lachaise and back into the bright lights and the busy streets of the first arrondissement. Christine doesn’t notice for several long moments that they are riding bareback, that Raoul must be working very hard to keep them both balanced as the horse canters over the uneven streets, his own arm still bleeding. He must be an incredible equestrian to have navigated the darkness here at what she is sure was a full gallop, if he didn’t even take the time to properly tack his horse. She sits up a little straighter and tries to keep herself upright so he doesn’t have to do all the work himself, but his arms tighten around her waist in a silent _I’ve got you,_ so she slumps against his chest once more. The horse slows to a trot as they draw closer to _La Parisienne,_ and people turn to look at them—they must look rather odd, Raoul not dressed at all for the weather and Christine riding side-saddle on a bareback horse with her fiancé—but she does not pay it any mind. Her thoughts have wandered back to her Angel.

So, he is capable of leaving the opera house, it would seem. She hates to admit that she had been foolish enough to think herself safe beyond those walls, thought perhaps that he was confined to the opera house by some curse or agreement. How stupid of her. Now she is not safe anywhere, because she has drawn him into the real world as a concrete form.

But he had let them go. He had let them run, let her disappear with Raoul into the night, though it would have been so easy for him to kill Raoul and take Christine once more. The thought is entirely unsettling. She feels like a fool for making this mistake again, feels terrible for dragging Raoul into the night and into danger, feels stupid for nearly falling for his trap. She is remarkably not pressed about everything else, not worried by how easily he almost took her, not distressed by the closeness of their proximity. Only perplexed.

Raoul helps her off the horse and wraps an arm around her shoulders as they head into _La Parisienne._ He nods at the doorman as if this is the most normal thing in the world, both of them stumbling into the hotel lobby late at night after a wild flight on a horse through the streets of Paris, him without a coat and a hat and her practically dead on her feet. She does not bother nodding, does not bother doing anything other than focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and getting herself into the lift. She wish she could master Raoul’s practiced nonchalance in even the strangest of situations. 

For a moment there, when she had run to him and pressed their lips together amidst the fear and the adrenaline of the cemetery, it had seemed as if all the tension and the bitterness of the past three months had gone away. He had held her in his arms once more, had steadied her with the reassuring firmness of his body, and she had felt safe and like things were right again.

The second they reach the suite on the top floor the awkwardness comes rushing back. She lets go of his hand and takes off her cloak and scarf, hanging them by the door and going to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Raoul allows her approximately thirty seconds of this uncomfortable suspense before he has clearly had enough of their bitterly silent argument. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, taking the kettle from her and putting it on the stove to boil. 

“I wasn’t,” she says, refusing to meet his eyes and going to get bandages from the bathroom. 

“Clearly,” he snaps. “You could have died! For Christ’s sake Christine, _he_ was there! Don’t you realize how dangerous that was?”

“Shockingly, Raoul, yes, I realize the implications of my foolishness,” she says evenly, still refusing to meet his eyes as she rifles for iodine in the cabinet.

“I mean really, Christine,” he says, carrying on as he sifts through the box of teas in the drawer, looking for chamomile. “ _What_ were you thinking, going there alone at night?”

“I wanted to see my father,” she says, softly.

“Couldn’t it have waited until it was light? Or until I could have taken you?”

“No,” she says flatly. “It couldn’t have.”

Raoul looks at her and they look gazes, briefly. He is the first to look away, extracting a the cannister of chamomile tea from the drawer and setting it on the counter. “Can I ask why you needed to see your father so late at night?” he asks, carefully.

“I just…” she hesitates. She does not know how to answer this. “I needed to see him.”

“I see,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He allows her to force him into a chair, sits silently for a moment as she rips the hole in his sleeve wider and inspects his wound. It is shallow, hardly more than a scratch, but she daubs iodine on it nonetheless and ties a bandage around his bicep. “Did you give any thought to the danger you put yourself in?”

“No,” she says, truthfully. She hadn’t thought. Had not imagined that he would follow her there, beyond the opera house, had not imagined what sort of peril could have befallen her, alone where nobody knew where to find her. “I just went.”

“Christine,” Raoul sighs.

“What?” she snaps. “What do you want me to say?”

“I just want to understand,” he says, and she sees that truth in his eyes. “I want to understand what has been going on with you these past few weeks, I want to understand why you won’t look me in the eye and why you’ve been home so late every night. Why you’re suddenly taking late night trips to your father’s grave, when I know for a fact you haven’t been before. It’s like you’re wasting away. You won’t eat, you barely sleep, the Managers have told me they’re worried after your health. It reminds me of those months leading up to _Il Muto,_ when that monster had you in his grasp again. I would wonder if that’s what’s happening now, only I can’t imagine you’d actually heed his request for you to return to your lessons.” He scoffs softly at the very thought.

She hesitates for a moment, stares resolutely at the kettle. A watched kettle never boils, isn’t that the saying? Still she watches it, avoiding his gaze as she lets him sort through his thoughts himself. When she does speak, it is quiet, and it is not an answer to his unspoken question. “He’s not a monster.” Is that the truth? She isn’t sure, anymore. She only knows that despite how angry he makes her, despite the way he has trapped her in an unknowable situation, she does not hate him. It’s the strangest thing.

“Christine,” Raoul says. “Do you mean to tell me that you _have_ been seeing him again?” Her silence is apparently all the answer he needs, and he gets very quiet. “For how long?” he asks, is met with more silence. “ _For how long, Christine?”_

“Two months,” she whispers.

“Fucking hell,” he swears, turning and striding away from her. “Two months?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Yes,” she whispers, biting her lip.

“And you didn’t tell me?” It is not angry, it is not accusatory, it is just sad.

“I couldn’t,” she says.

“Have I made myself so unapproachable to you that you really kept this a secret from me all this time?” he asks, seemingly appalled at himself.

“I didn’t have a _choice,_ ” she snaps again. “You asked me to play this part, I was doing what it took to do so to the best of my ability.” Raoul is silent, the only sound in the room is that of their breaths. She speaks, before she loses her nerve. “I went back to him because I had to. I couldn’t sing the part, I needed his guidance.”

“Guidance? Christine, how can you call this guidance? He has been manipulating and abusing you for years!”

“He hasn’t,” she says. She doesn’t know why she’s defending him, only that this is not abuse. It cannot be, can it? It is twisted, certainly, but it is from a place of loneliness. From a place of care. It was good in its intent, however terrible it has been for her, she has to believe that. “He’s been helping me.”

“Is that what he’s told you? That controlling you, forcing you not to sleep or eat and torturing you in your thoughts is helping you?”

“He _has,”_ she says. “He’s made my voice better than it’s ever been.”

“At what cost, though? Your life?”

“I needed his help. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep him out of my head.”

“And did you?”

She bites her lip. “More or less.” Is this the truth? It has become clear that he does not need to be in her head to do damage. She can do that by herself, conjure his image where he is not and torture herself without him lifting a finger.

“God, Christine,” he murmurs. It breaks her heart. “You’ve been doing this alone all this time?”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. He gazes back at her for a moment before he sinks into a chair at the table and buries his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Her heart breaks into one million pieces in that moment, and then comes back together just as fast and she leaves the tea on the counter, comes to stand behind him, her hands resting upon her shoulders.

She is so tired of this fighting. She is so tired of this endless expanse of unspoken things between them, so tired of the loneliness. He had been right to be shocked she did not tell him—she should have told him, but what’s done is done. She does not have to face this alone anymore, has just been too selfless to see that he has been waiting to shoulder the burden with her. She squeezes her hands on his shoulders and moves to kneel in front of him, the inverse of all the many times he has come to comfort her. He feels her move, lifts his head from his hands and she is startled at how pale he has grown, at how lank his beautiful hair has gotten. Has it been so long since she truly looked at him? Three months into rehearsals for _Don Juan Triumphant,_ three months of tense silences and bitter conversations and empty touches. She is so tired of it. In an instant he is reaching for her, slipping from the chair to the floor and into her embrace.

He does not ever let her see him break, there are no tears and he always is the first to apologize after their arguments, but she thinks as he buries his face in her shoulder and lets her hold him, combing through his hair and whispering sweet little nothings into his ear, that she detects a tell-tale tremble in his shoulders, small hitches in his breath. They stay like that for she doesn’t know how long, but it feels like a long time. Long enough that her resolve seems to melt and his anger lessens, long enough that they fold into one another’s arms like the home they have both been searching for for so long, long enough that she loses feeling in her fingers fisted in his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “This is my fault.”

“No,” she says. “I went back. I thought I could keep him out. I thought I could do it right this time. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You are the strongest person I know,” he says. “You only went back because I put you in this position. I am the one who should be sorry, and I am. _God,_ ” he sighs, pulling her closer, his hand on the back of her head. “I am _so_ sorry.”

“I forgive you,” she says, and she means it.

“It is more than I deserve,” he says, silencing her with a gentle squeeze when she makes to interrupt, “but I shall do with your forgiveness whatever I can. Christine, I was a fool to think we could win this.”

“No,” she says, “you were optimistic. I needed it.”

“He nearly had you,” Raoul says, voice muffled in her shoulder. “Again. I feel largely responsible for that, and it is a burden that I shall bear with the promise to do better.”

It is a shock to her that he is apologizing and meaning it, that her words are not being spit back into her face. That a wave of nausea does not roll over her and she does not feel compelled to confess to crimes she has not even committed. She sinks further into Raoul’s embrace, and he tightens his hold on her.

“I missed you,” she says, tucking her face against his neck and inhaling deeply. “I’m sorry for being so distant.”

“I don’t fault you for that,” he says. “I haven’t exactly made it easy to approach me, forcing your hand into this.”

“No,” she says, “you haven’t.” The only way forward is honesty. She knows this. “I was angry for a long time, but I don’t blame you for this anymore. I only blame myself.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says. “It’s not your fault he twisted your thoughts and drew you to him.”

“It’s my fault I went,” she says, miserably. “I knew that I couldn’t let him in, even a little bit, or this would happen again. But I went back anyway. I was foolish.”

“You were trusting,” Raoul corrects her. “It is something I love about you, how good-hearted you are. Only this time somebody used that to their advantage, and it is not your fault that you were tricked.”

She has a hard time believing him, but he says it with such conviction that it must be at least partially true. Raoul is not in the business of lying to her, not ever. “Will you stay the night?” she asks, quietly. It has been three months since she’s been this close to him, since she’s felt safe in the circle of his arms. She is not sure she could stand it if he left.

“Of course,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her head.

He draws her a bath and then he takes one himself, and Christine is already waiting on the sofa with a blanket from her bed when he emerges from the bathroom, pink-cheeked and damp-haired, his face freshly shaved. She looks at him for a moment—really looks, for the first time in months—and what she sees troubles her. He is pale, too, and there are purple shadows under his eyes that tell her that she is not the only one who has been having trouble sleeping of late. This is the first time he’s shaved in days, she suspects, and he’s nicked himself on the jaw, leaving a little spot of blood in the razor’s wake. She stands and goes to him, and he opens his arms to her.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she accuses.

“I’ve been stressed,” he sighs.

She tugs him over to the sofa and kicks her feet up, pulling him down to lie in the hollow between her legs, to rest his head against her chest, ear pressed to her heart. She runs her fingers through his hair again, combing out the tangles gently. His hair has grown longer, too. She lets her fingers abandon it and rub soothing circles into his shoulders instead. He sighs and tightens his hold around her waist just slightly, humming softly as she works at the tense knots across his back. He really has been stressed.

“You need to take care of yourself, Raoul,” she says, though she recognizes the irony of the situation. Recognizes that she herself has been dying a slow death for weeks, and she is now criticizing Raoul for not sleeping enough.

“I’ve just been so worried.” _About you._

“I’ll be all right.”  _Maybe._

“I won’t make you promise not to go back,” Raoul says, carefully, tilting his head to look up at her, “but I ask that you tell me, if you do. You don’t have to do this alone. We are a team, no?”

She sighs, leans down to press a kiss to his forehead and his eyes flutter shut. “We are a team,” she says, “and I promise you that I won’t keep this secret from you anymore.”

He nuzzles his face against her chest, inhales the scent of her soap—cinnamon and vanilla—deeply. “I am so afraid of losing you,” he says, so earnestly it’s like a confession, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. “How did you find me tonight? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.”

“I took a guess,” he says, tilting his head up again to gaze at her. His eyes are the color of a clear brook somewhere far away and lovely. “I happened to be going to the opera house to take you to dinner, but Monsieur Reyer said you’d left rehearsal early and the doorman told me you’d taken a cab and headed west. I put two and two together, borrowed a horse from the stables, and rode as fast as I could. I’m only glad I got it right.”

“Me too,” she says. She has never had someone know her like this, know where she was going without her needing to say it, have an instinctive understanding of her thoughts and actions. It is refreshing, in the terror of her Angel in her head, to know that Raoul can just guess without needing to own her.

“Would you have gone with him?” Raoul asks, sometime later when the lamps are burning low and they are warm in the glow of having each other once more.

Christine contemplates this. “Yes,” she says. He tenses on top of her, and she runs a hand up through his hair again. “Not for the reasons you might think. I’ve never loved anyone else the way I love you, Raoul. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

“Why, then?” he asks. She searches his tone, looking for a hint of jealousy or possessiveness behind the question, but she cannot find any. It’s only curiosity, and worry, a desperation to understand this foe if he is going to fight it properly with her.

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” she says. “When he speaks—when he _sings_ —it’s like the world fades away. We’re connected.” She loses her train of thought, staring into the distance for a moment as she contemplates this strange string of events. How _had_ she gone so far down this path? She had been lonely, she knows this for sure, lonely and sad and grieving. And he had been there when she’d needed someone. The rest had followed, she supposes. She glances down and sees Raoul staring at her, his eyes laced with concern. “Does it make you upset?” she asks, softly.

“Not for the reasons you might think,” he echoes. “I know you love me, I’ve never questioned your faith. It just worries me, how much control he has over you. I hate seeing you hurting like this.”

“Are you afraid of him?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, simply. It brings her an overwhelming sense of relief, to hear somebody else admit to anything other than mild annoyance or exasperation about the Ghost. “But I love you more than I fear him, and that means I will do anything, whatever it takes to free you from this nightmare, to give you back your life.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” she mumbles.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he says. “It is my privilege to love you.” They fall silent for a long time, listening to the sound of each other’s breaths in the quiet of their suite, and Christine thinks Raoul has fallen asleep. When he speaks, though, his voice is awake, and she looks down to see that familiar look of thought on his face. “What do you feel towards him?” he asks, and she thinks he must have been carefully constructing this sentence for a long time.

“I should hate him,” she says. “I should, after everything. He makes me so angry, and he’s taken everything from me, and I should really and truly hate him. But I don’t, and I don’t know why. Pity, maybe, or sympathy. But I don’t think it’s that, I think that it might be compassion. Before you came, Raoul, he was everywhere. I was never without him. He was my whole world, and I forgot that something existed outside of us. I can’t go back to that, I don’t want to, but I also can’t forget it.”

There is an unspoken question that hangs between them. What will she do, when the time comes? Will she be able to resist his pull, will she find it in her heart to do what is necessary, to put an end to this mess? It is a question for the morning, maybe, or for the moment, but it is not important right now. All that is important is that they’ve had this conversation, that they are one step further to understanding and to accepting and to moving on. There is, of course, the glaring obstacle of the Phantom in their way, but they will deal with it as Raoul said all those months ago on the rooftop: _together._

He presses a kiss to the skin over her heart, just above the neckline of her nightgown. He is so beautiful, so good. He is willing to dive fearlessly into this unknown fight, all in the name of her freedom. It touches her heart in a way she does not understand. She blinks, and is shocked to feel a tear fall onto her cheek. In a moment Raoul has moved up her body to reach her face, is kissing it away on her cheek and then is kissing her lips, and it is like nothing exists outside of them. Angel be damned and Ghost be forgotten, she has everything she has ever needed right here. She will go back in the morning and face the music, she knows this, knows she must, but for now she will kiss Raoul, and when they are done kissing she will hold him close, heart to heart, and remind herself that she is not alone.

She is not alone in a different way that her Angel had made her not alone though, because she has been not alone for so long. But this not alone is an end to her solitude, it is another heart to confide her secrets in, another person to share every day with, her life, her love, her happinesses and her sadnesses. When her Angel had made her not alone he had taken, stolen her secrets and hoarded them like gold, infiltrated her mind and taken her thoughts until he was all of them, until she couldn’t be alone if she tried.

It is a terrifying prospect, the idea that she will have to face him once more, that this nightmare could come to an end. Christine has voiced her fears, she has said that she thinks the plan is foolish, that they are hopefully naïve to think that they could outwit this mastermind. And yet it doesn’t seem so impossible, here, with Raoul promising her a future and the world locked outside.

For the first time she feels vaguely optimistic about the future, like they have a chance at something more, like this evil might have an end. That is Raoul’s effect on her, she supposes, his idealism and his love is infectious, and as she lays on the couch with him asleep on top of her, snoring gently as she runs her fingers through his hair once more, she finds she doesn’t want it to ever end. If it’s stupid, if it’s foolish, if it’s naïve, that is fine. There are no secrets between them tonight, and that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was wrong! i am a chronic over-writer! in every area of my life! forgive me my trespasses, friends, and bear with me. we are almost there indeed


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> true story i was backstage at phantom and i picked up christine's wedding dress, it weighs a literal fuckton

When he comes to her next, it will be the end. She knows this with every beat her heart makes for the next two weeks, knows this in every breath that fills her lungs. Knows this even as she feels his absence, which is palpable. 

He disappears again. Goes to ground in the last two weeks of rehearsal, but Christine is certain she has not heard the last of him. He has never been the type to give up easily, and this sudden silence coupled with the fact that he had let her and Raoul go at the cemetery on that night tells her that the worst is still yet to come. She cannot imagine how much worse it can get, after everything, but she knows that underestimating her Angel is a fool’s mistake, and she is determined not to be a fool anymore. 

She takes every precaution. She spends as little time in the opera house as she is physically able to, never strays into the dark corners by herself or lets her mind wander too far from the job at hand, moves dressing rooms. She pours her heart and soul into the performance. She has finally figured out the problem, why everything had been falling flat. Unsurprisingly, it is because of her hesitancy to devote herself to the role, her refusal to perform because this part was written for her. She throws that caution to the wind as best she can as soon as she returns to rehearsal the following morning. The only way she is going to make it through these next two weeks, the only way her performance is going to be the level of spectacular it must be in order to draw the Phantom from hiding, now he knows Raoul knows about everything, is if she seizes the role by the throat and creates such a powerful character that Christine and Aminta cannot possibly be confused with one another. This is the only way she will be able to keep the two apart in her mind, to create some separation between herself and _Don Juan Triumphant._  

It works, to an extent. She still feels vaguely queasy when she dons her costumes at fittings; she does not dare voice her discomfort, lest she seem like a diva and lest her Angel listen in and do something to torture her even more, but she is distinctly uncomfortable with the amount of skin on display. It is a discomfert she will have to suffer, it seems. Still, Madame Claude forces her to stand behind a screen so that Raoul—who is insistent on accompanying her wherever he can within the opera house, like he thinks her Angel will jump out at her from behind a curtain or something—cannot see anything. 

“I don’t understand,” he huffs as Madame Claude pins another piece of lace to the neckline. “I’m going to see her eventually on the stage!” 

“It’s not proper for you to see your fiancée dressed like this,” Madame Claude tuts. Christine has a sneaking suspicion that Madame Claude is not only concerned with the propriety of their relationship, but with Raoul’s potential reaction to the dress. She cannot imagine he would be pleased, either, and is privately thankful that he will only ever see them when it is too late to do anything about it, and from the distance of his box. There are some things that are not worth raising a fuss about, some losses that must be sustained in the final weeks of this war, and her costumes are one of them, apparently. 

“But I’m _going_ to—” 

“To see her as Aminta, yes, but not as Christine. Behave, Monsieur le Vicomte, or I shall have you escorted out of my costume shop.” Madame Claude is the sort of mother hen you cannot help but obey. Between her and Madame Giry, the cast is kept well in line. Even Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny and most powerful patron of the office, does not dare contradict her, but goes back to sorting buttons in petulant silence, a task Madame Claude had set him to doing three days prior that he has yet to make any real headway in, in part because the box must contain at least a thousand buttons. 

Madame Claude turns Christine around so she can see herself in the mirror, and Christine considers the ensemble. The dress is pretty, Christine would admire it on anyone else, but on her it feels scandalous. It is a bright peach accented with black lace, small jewels adorning the dreadfully low neckline so that it is impossible not to look at her bosom, which seems to spill over in a way she hadn’t thought possible. The skirts flounce something ridiculous, layers of crinoline and fabric spill from her hips but wind up somewhere just below her knees, leaving several inches of bare calf between the hem and the top of her boot. Christine spins to inspect her figure, wondering if there is any way to make her look less like a harlot. Is not Aminta supposed to be innocent, at least in part? 

“Do you think we could add another layer here?” she asks, indicating the bottom ruffle. “Not a whole layer of skirt, just another bit of trim?” 

Madame Claude considers her request. “I can try, dear,” she finally says, and Christine suspects she is just saying this for her benefit. She will not be able to add another layer of trim, because there is an unspoken agreement among the entire opera—or perhaps spoken, she does not know—that everything will be done exactly as specified. 

“It will all be over soon,” Raoul says as they ready to leave the costume shop, Christine wearing her far more respectable burgundy dress once more. Raoul drapes her red scarf around her neck—it doesn’t match, but he loves it so much when she wears it that she will not deny him the sight of her in it—and sweeps her traveling cloak over her shoulders. The chill has sustained itself into April, and the rain is falling thick and fast outside. 

“Not soon enough,” she says, sliding her hand through the crook of his proffered arm and leading him out the door with a wave at Madame Claude, who is already pinning someone else’s dress to a mannequin. 

It’s true. Not soon enough. She is tired of this waiting game, tired of toeing the line and doing everything right, tired of being in the opera and tired of singing and tired of not sleeping and not eating and tired of still feeling like there is something terrible looming over her head. She knows she is not the only one who feels it as they inch closer to opening night, knows it in the whispered conversations in the halls—like those are more private than speaking at full volume in this echo chamber—knows it in the unnatural sound of laughter and the constant hum of anxiety that has everyone in its grips. 

“ _Maman_ is still angry with the Managers,” Meg tells Christine and Raoul as the three of them have tea at the café across the street from the front entrance to the opera house during a break from rehearsal. They do this most days, walk out the front door as if they are hardly more than three young friends enjoying the early spring, as if they haven’t a care in the world. 

“And me?” Raoul says, the unspoken end to Meg’s comment.

“She thinks your plan won’t work,” Meg replies.

“If she has a better one, I’d love to hear it,” Raoul grumbles. Christine lays a hand upon his.

“It’s the only plan we’ve got,” Christine says. She’s still not entirely on board, doesn’t know if she will be by the end of the week when it is time, but it doesn’t really matter. They’ve come too far. The plans are set and the trap is laid, they are all lying in wait for the beast to stumble.

“Are you sure about it?” Meg asks, looking at them both, at their interlaced fingers resting atop the table. “Perhaps it would be better if you just run.”

Christine shakes her head, but Raoul speaks before she can. “If we run,” he says, “this will never be over. We have to face him and put a stop to it ourselves.”

Even he is not entirely convinced, though. Christine only knows this because she can see the tension in his shoulders and the constant furrow between his brow, see the way he paces anxiously when he’s trying to think and shuffles through papers again and again, counting and mumbling about gendarmes and doors and curtain calls. Christine does what she can for him, distracts him by reading aloud and pressing kisses to that spot on his forehead that bunches up when he is too deep in thought, leads him from whatever dark path his mind has tumbled down, but it is only so much. She catches him staring at her often with a complicated mixture of emotions written across his face, fear and love and desperation and pain. 

And she herself is full of trepidation. Part of her thinks that this cannot possibly work, that something will go wrong, something they did not account for, that her Angel has cottoned on to their plan and will not come, that he will drop another chandelier, that he will burn the whole opera house to the ground before they even get the chance to perform. There is another part of her though—that part of her that has always harbored blind and desperate hopes, against her better judgement—that thinks they might succeed. That this foolish plan might actually work, that they might win this war at last.

She has always been one for wishful thinking.

The morning of opening night dawns bright and beautiful. It is so contrary to the dread Christine is feeling in the pit of her stomach that for a moment she thinks she must be dreaming. But Raoul squeezes her gently when he sees she is awake and presses a kiss to the crown of her head and she knows that this is real, because her dreams have never been so kind as to allow her to find herself in a sunlit room, wrapped in the warm embrace of her lover. Raoul has taken to sneaking out of his house and spending nights at _La Parisienne_ again—and Philippe has taken to letting him, so long as he uses the back entrance and doesn’t get caught—because he knows Christine won’t sleep at all without him there. Not that she sleeps much _with_ him there, and what sleep she does get is fitful and punctuated by strange nightmares that don’t ever resolve themselves and that she can never seem to remember when she wakes, but it is comforting to not be alone when she opens her eyes in the middle of the night, to hear his rumbling breath and look up and see his face illuminated in the soft moonlight. He wakes earlier than her usually but never moves for fear of disturbing her, instead always waits to start his day until he is sure she is awake for good, always lets her sleep as late as possible because he knows she needs it. 

This morning, though, he looks as if he is the one who did not rest last night. She slept shockingly well lying on top of him, the most loving pillow she has ever had, but the shadows under his eyes are back and his eyes themselves are tired like the fallen feathers of a blue jay, trod underfoot. 

“Hello,” she says, blinking up at him. Not good morning, because it is not.

“Hello,” he says, with a tired smile. “I love you especially first thing in the morning.”

It makes her blush, and she crawls up the length of his body to press a gentle kiss to his lips. She savors the moment, his lips soft beneath hers and tasting like his favorite— _her favorite—_ peppermint lip salve, his cheeks warm under her hands, his hands firm and reassuring upon her waist.

“You need to shave,” she mumbles against his lips, pulling away and sitting up. He follows, keeping his arms wrapped around her waist, and presses his face into the crook of her neck.

“Can we have five more minutes?” he asks. “Just five more, to revel in this.”

She gives him ten, because she loves him, and then another hour, because silently, quietly, privately, she cannot pretend that she is not terrified she will not get to revel in this ever again, after tonight. They drift unusually close together that morning; she follows him into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub while he shaves and she dabs away the excess shaving cream herself with a little towel; he wraps his arms around her waist and presses his body up behind her, chin upon her shoulder, smooth cheek pressed against her cheek, while she sets the kettle on the stove, and when her hands are shaking too bad to pour the water into the mugs he reaches around her and does it himself. Once Marie has done up Christine’s corset and bustle and helped her to don her petticoats, Raoul sends her attendant away and finishes the rest himself; Christine buttons up his waistcoat and ties his cravat around his throat, tucking it neatly into the neck of his shirt. It is these silent gestures of support, quiet _I love yous_ whispered over and over again in the din of their raging thoughts that mean the world to her. It is too warm outside for her red scarf but she dons it anyway, draping it over her shoulders before they step out the door. 

It is a beautiful day and he suggests a stroll through the Tuileries before lunch. She isn’t called until an hour and a half before curtain and she has no desire to be at the opera any earlier than necessary so they indulge, wandering along the trails and admiring the performers, the sculptures, the ruins of the Palace. In the sunlight it is almost possible to forget the looming threat of tonight that hangs over them. Raoul stops at a stand and buys a bouquet of crocuses for her kitchen table, he inspects the vegetable options and declares he might like broccoli with dinner this evening when they return. She indulges this fantasy of his that shouldn’t even really be a fantasy, it is so mundane, because she knows it is the only way he can deal with the thought of what they are about to do. She will not say what she knows is on both of their minds: this is either a small preview of what their future will be, or it is their only taste of what it won’t. 

So they avoid the topic altogether as they return to _La Parisienne,_ as they lounge on the sofa, her feet in his lap while he reads aloud and she sips tea—he is not as good at the voices as she is, but she knows she must rest her voice before tonight—while they have a quiet lunch of salmon and cucumber sandwiches from her favorite café down the street. They even avoid it while Raoul dresses in his evening best as it gets closer to her call time, pretend that perhaps they are going to the ballet tonight, or a ball, or anything other than what might be their deaths. Christine cannot really tell what’s on his mind as she gathers her things and he watches her, does not know if he is optimistic or not. Only knows that he holds her hand so tightly it almost hurts in the carriage on their way, and sees her all the way to Dressing Room One—nearest the stage, formerly Carlotta’s but given to Christine after the mirror incident—before he goes to oversee last-minute preparations before the house opens. 

It is with a dreadful feeling of suspense in her stomach that Christine begins applying her makeup, and Meg’s knock on her door comes as a welcome relief. 

“I thought you might need some help,” Meg whispers. She is already in her costume, a sweeping flamenco-esque dress of black and red with a slight up the thigh, and her hair frames her face in a wild mane of blonde curls. She looks beautiful, striking, otherworldly. 

Christine nods, not trusting herself to speak for fear she will confess all her fears and terrors and lose the nerve to do what she must. She moves so Meg can sit in front of her on top of the vanity, and tilts her head back while Meg takes the brush from her hand and begins to sweep rouge over her cheeks. This is simple, it is familiar, it is the same thing that Christine and Meg have done before every show they’ve ever done together. Meg helps Christine with her makeup, and Christine helps Meg stretch. Things have always been this way. 

Only there has never been such tension between them. 

“Meg,” Christine says, suddenly seized by the fear that she will never see her best friend again, “I–” 

“Careful, you’ll smudge your lipstick,” Meg says, and Christine stops talking, dares to glance at Meg’s face. She is frowning in concentration as she dabs at Christine’s lips, but there is an extra wrinkle of worry between her brows. “There,” she whispers when she’s finished. 

Meg moves out of the way so Christine can see herself in the vanity. She does not look like anyone she recognizes. All those months ago—a year, nearly—when she had played Elissa, she had marveled at her change in appearance. For a few shining moments she had become a queen, a star. Somehow, this feels different. The heavy kohl around her eyes, the red upon her lips, rouge upon her cheeks, it is all rather… much. Meg has pinned her hair largely back, but she has left a few curls to frame her face. She looks every inch the ingenue, the wicked temptation of innocence, the girl who doesn’t know any better, who has no idea what dressing like this means. 

“You did a wonderful job, Meg,” Christine says, hollowly. “Thank you.”

Suddenly Meg is in her arms and Christine is holding onto her for dear life, careful not to smudge her makeup against Meg’s dress. She can feel Meg shaking, feel her uneven breaths in her embrace, and Christine has to bite back her own tears. There have been so many of them, lately.

“ _God,_ ” Meg says, pulling away and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It’s just that I love you so much, Christine, you’re my best friend, and I don’t know how I’ll stand it if something happens to you.”

Christine gives Meg a smile that she hopes is more reassuring than it feels. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she says, as confidently as she can.

“Christine,” Meg says, staring at her with wide blue eyes. “Aren’t you scared?”

Terrified. Petrified. Suspicious and frightened and horrified and afraid and any other number of types of fear. She is all of them, all at once, but they are a strange undercurrent, they reside somewhere outside her heart and her mind, somewhere they aren’t overpowering. “He won’t hurt me,” she says. This is, perhaps, the truth. She does not think the injuries she has sustained at his hands were ever intentional. He does not know his own strength, or does not know the way the human body is susceptible to damage, perhaps. But, as she thinks on it, she cannot be too sure that he will not harm her. He had dropped the chandelier, after all, in a fit of jealous rage. Of course, there are much worse things than physical harm, and she knows this for certain now. “He won’t kill me,” she amends. She thinks. There are much worse things than death, too.

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Meg says. Christine blushes and ducks her head. “I’m serious,” Meg carries on. “I only wish that I had realized what was happening years ago and put a stop to it.”

Christine wishes this too, desperately. She wishes she could stop her seventeen-year-old-self from ever getting involved, from ever being so foolish and naïve and trusting. She wishes she could forget all the things that came from this nightmare, could open her eyes and realize that she had dreamt the whole thing, that she is still seventeen and kneeling on the floor of the chapel.

Only does she? Can she really regret it all? He had promised her the world all those months ago, and had he not given it to her? She had become a leading lady, she had reunited with Raoul, she had fallen in love and achieved her dreams of being an opera star. She had truly had everything. Does she really wish it hadn’t happened?

At times, yes, and at times, no.

Meg stays while Madame Claude helps her to don her first costume. It is the least offensive of them all, a white dress that falls to her feet but still clings to her skin like water, some inversion of her innocence. She hates it, but she wears it nonetheless. Madame Claude gathers her into a warm embrace before she leaves, Meg kisses her cheeks and does not let Christine see her cry, and Christine finds herself strangely distant from all of this. This is no different than any other performance, she tries to tell herself.

There is a knock on the door just before she is about to leave for the stage. Raoul comes in before she can say anything and he shuts the door quickly, locking it and resting his head against the wood. He is shaking.

“Raoul?” she says, standing quickly and going to him. “Raoul, what is it?”

“I was a fool,” he says. “I was a fool to think he would fall for our trap.” 

“What happened?” she demands, that undercurrent of fear uncoiling in her belly. 

“He knows,” Raoul says, turning to her. “He knows our plans, he’s known all along. I don’t know what this means.” Christine blinks at him, she has never seen him so startled. “He spoke to us.” 

“When?” she asks, sharply. 

“Just now,” he says. “We locked all the doors and positioned the guards and then suddenly… he was there. He taunted us. He told us to carry on as we will, to let his opera begin.” 

Christine squares her shoulders. “Then we shall.” 

“Christine!” Raoul gasps, grabbing her shoulders. “No! We can’t– You’ll be at terrible risk! We cannot walk into his trap, we have to call this whole thing off.” 

“No,” she says, shocking herself in her firmness. “We will do this. I don’t know what he intends either, but this is our only chance, Raoul. We must.” 

He stares at her for a long time, his hands warm upon her shoulders, and then he pulls her into a kiss. It is fierce, passionate, fiery, and Christine dives into it, tangling her fingers in his hair and meeting him heartbeat for heartbeat. When they finally break apart, chests heaving and breaths coming fast, she drinks in the sight of him. His lips are stained with her lipstick and his eyes are wild with a hundred different emotions all at once. He leans down again and recaptures her lips, only this time it is something infinitely softer, warmer, sweeter. One hand comes to the back of her neck, the other the base of her spine, pulling her as close as he can. Her fingers clutch his lapels like a lifeline, and she puts all the unsaid words into their embrace. _I’m doing this for us._  

“I love you so much,” he says. His voice cracks on the _you,_ and her heart cracks with it. He is so scared. 

“I know,” she says. “I love you endlessly.” 

His hand shakes as he offers it to her and she presses a kiss to his knuckles, leaving a stain from her lipstick. As he walks her to the stage there is a hush across the opera, save for the murmuring of an ignorant audience. Heads turn to watch as he leads her to her spot in the wings, and presses one more kiss to her forehead. He turns to go and she watches him making his way towards the door to the house, hoping to god that this is not the end. 

When he turns to look at her one more time in the darkness of backstage, she swears his eyes are a color that she’s never seen before. They must be a color that doesn’t even exist in nature, a color that is unique to his eyes, and his eyes alone. She gives him the best smile she can muster and turns to face the stage. She cannot watch his retreating back. 

The curtain rises, and if this is to be her last dance, she will do it well. She will do it better than well, she will be transcendent. She will be the angel of music, tonight. 

 

* * *

 

She had always thought she would know him anywhere. She never realized how much she had come to rely on that; when she had been lonely she had taken comfort in being able to sense his constant presence, and when he became less a comfort and more a torment she had used the knowledge of his presence to monitor her behavior, to gauge her safety. 

It is thoroughly disconcerting when she does not feel him in the air. She cannot stop her eyes from wandering to Box Five during the first two acts of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ seeking out the fire of his gaze that is so curiously absent. It unsettles her, ties her stomach into knots for all of Act One as she frets in a corner of her mind about where he might be, about what had happened before the show. She does not let herself stumble, though, does not ever let her voice waver or her character drop, and it gets easier as the show goes on. That strange detachment she had felt from her body all day starts to disappear and she lets herself fold into the performance, lets herself feel the words she is singing, fall into the role of Aminta and revel in the joy of performing once more. She is slowly aware of all her movements, the pitch of her voice, the way her hand feels on Piangi’s arm. 

Piangi is doing his very best. He is an excellent tenor, truly, a well-seasoned opera singer, but this role is not his forte. He misses out on some of the subtlety of Don Juan, though, the play between inamorato and deceiver, the line that separates love and lies. Christine has seen it in the music since the start, had recognized it with a sharp twist of her gut; this Don Juan was not written for Piangi, the way Aminta was for her, but for someone with a far smoother voice, a far more mysterious way about him. It had bothered her to know this, to know that her Angel had pictured them as some sort of twisted pair of lovers, intertwined and bound by secrets and subterfuge, falsehoods and fictions. It had bothered her more to know that he didn’t even have the courage to say this to her face, that he hid behind Piangi, of all people, and forced Christine to play it out on stage for his own enjoyment. 

It is even more curious now she realizes he’s not even _watching._ However much she knows that she is here only as bait, only to lead him to his death, however much she knows that she should not yearn for his applause anymore, she is still a little hurt that he has not come to see her triumph. She feels like a petulant child, hurt that her tutor has not come out to support her, however stupid that feeling may be. She tells herself that she is only upset because it will make their plan of capture that much more difficult. It has nothing to do with the fact that she might want him to see what he has created. 

She can feel Raoul’s gaze, though. His is a different sort from her Angel’s; it does not burn but settles heavily on her skin with a comforting weight. She can feel him tracking her movements across the stage from the Premier Box, where he sits with the Managers and two gendarmes. Every now and then she risks a glance up at him; his is one of the only boxes she can see from the stage, his and the Phantom’s, how curious and strange. She dares a glance at him during the applause break before she must dart off stage and change into her garish peach dress for Act Four. He is leaning on the edge of the box rather than in his seat, watching her intently, and makes a show of clapping for her even louder when he sees her watching. 

This is the strangest performance she’s ever done. She keeps forgetting that it is the script of _Don Juan Triumphant_ which she is following, rather than the script of their—foolish!—plan. It is difficult to decide, sometimes, who is pulling the strings here. She still has not felt that tell-tale gaze, cannot feel his presence in the air, and she is beginning to suspect that perhaps he had been scared, has retreated to his shadows and will make his move another night. She tries—fails—to not let that lull her into a sense of false security as Madame Claude helps her into the peach monstrosity before Act Four. She watches as the chorus sings around the table, as they disappear when Renault and Piangi storm onstage plotting their treachery, as Renault covers Piangi with the black cloak, ushers him into the set piece. 

When she steps on the stage, she can feel every eye in the theatre on her. Granted, she’s the lead, every eye on the theatre _should_ be on her and has been all night, but every eye in the theatre is on her in a way that gives her a thrill again, in a way that makes her eager to perform this role, to dance this dance. She skips lightly across the stage, wrapping herself in her shawl and singing with an ease that has been hard to come by all this time rehearsing. She does not know what has changed as she tosses the apple in the air, makes a big show of cleaning it on her skirt with her knees kicked far apart, but she lets herself sink into the role more fully than she has all night. Piangi’s voice is something wonderful, truly, this is his best song tonight, clear and strong even from behind the set piece. It soothes her, relaxes the muscles in her shoulders as she hears him emerging onto the stage once more, encourages her to close her eyes and lose herself just a little bit in this strange scene. 

Why had she ever hated this scene so much? Masterfully written, music for the gods, truly, she thinks, as Piangi’s voice swirls around her, makes the edges of her vision blurry. When had he become so good at it? It is smooth, sinuous, twining around her thoughts and dulling them like a drug. It is the music, its haunting melody, dark and wicked and full of unsavory things. It is hard for her to remember that they are not really in love, in lust, that Piangi is not Don Juan and she is not Aminta. It is, she thinks, the mark of an excellent performance. Dimly, she can feel all eyes on them. 

She meanders across the stage, tossing the apple in her hands as Piangi drifts after her, still singing that beautiful and haunting melody. It is charged with something secret, secret and strange and sinister, soaked in longing and in want and in yearning and in desire. These words are true, she thinks, she has succumbed to the role, dropped her defenses. She is uninhibited, she is beautiful, she is radiant. Her mind drifts to her Angel as these words twine around her, and she cannot help but think of him hunched over the organ in that subterranean hideaway, furiously composing in the candlelight, cannot help but imagine his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hair coming unslicked, falling in his eyes as he plays with the passion of a man with nothing to lose. She watches Piangi with hooded eyes as he crosses towards her, offering a goblet. Wonders the significance behind this choice, wonders what the Phantom had been thinking. 

 _“You’ve decided,”_ he sings, his voice unnaturally beautiful, unnaturally sensual and seductive and she takes the goblet from him, pretends to drink deeply and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Yes, she has. She has made her decision and she is here. 

It is, perhaps, not entirely acting, the way she follows his body with her eyes, the way there is truly no use resisting the pull of his voice. She cannot act the way her heart races when he grabs hold of her wrist, waltzes them upstage. It is not acting if she truly lets her thoughts drift away from her, follows his lead as she leans toward him on the bench, as he leans towards her. It is dizzying, this music, their proximity. His hands ghost over her body, she can feel their warmth on her neck, feel them as they graze her face, as he switches to her other side and guides her own up over her stomach, over her chest. It is erotic, it is passionate, it is entirely unfamiliar and hazy and the air between them is charged like the moment before lightning strikes, burns like the embers waiting to be breathed into a blaze, crackles with intensity. She knows, somewhere, dimly, that she has to sing, that she has a role to play, but she cannot for the life of her remember the words, cannot remember anything other than the sweltering heat of the stage lights and of his presence. She has never felt like this before, never felt so totally hopelessly _gone_ to a performance, never felt music that moves her soul the way this does. 

Except she has.

 _His hands, ungloved. Her back, arched. Her mouth, open. Stars bursting across her vision, music that seems to come from inside her very soul._  

 _Oh_. Of course. Everything becomes clear in a second. How can she not have realizes this before? The hand upon her own hand upon her breast is wearing a ring on the pinky finger, a curious ring with a black stone set in it. The realization that this is her Angel sends a sharp rush of fear and a sharper rush of something far worse through her system and she stands suddenly, too suddenly, nearly trips over the bench in her rush to get away. 

Of course. They had been fools to think he would play by their rules. Of course he is here, on stage with her, touching her, singing to her. Of course she is clouded, of course she is dazed, of course the music is touching her like the trailing kiss of a lover, the heat of his gaze. It all makes sense now, the charged air around her, the weight of the scene, the tension between them. There had never been anything other than dizzying emotions between them. How had she not felt it? How had she not realized?    

It is no matter. She must ignore the part of her that is thrilled, ignore the racing of her heart that has everything to do with fear and everything to do with excitement, she must get through this song and find a way to tell Raoul, a stage hand, a gendarme, _someone_ what is happening. She has only the rest of the song until she is certain that things will go sideways. This, she thinks, will be her greatest test as an actress. To do all this, to maintain herself on stage and _not give in_ to him, to not surrender, to deliver him to his downfall. 

She begins to sing, and how curious it is that it seems this is the first time she has ever sung before. There is nothing like this thrill, nothing like the blood rushing in her head, like her heart pounding so loud it is keeping time, like the tremble of her abdomen as she strives for the lowest note. How curious the words are, too, because it is as if it is the first time she has ever sung these, too. _Past the point of no return_ indeed, for she has nothing to say. No words to express the fear and the anticipation and the hurt and the exhilaration of this moment, staring at what she knows are his eyes behind that hood, what she knows _only_ she knows are his eyes. How had she ever ignored their burn? 

Only, she cannot be sure what she has trespassed. There are two moments, here, two points, and she has danced between them. She has felt it, felt the power behind his voice and his words and his music, seen a whirlwind of passion and desire and lust behind those notes, seen what might happen if she lets herself give in. What is it he had said all those months ago? _Let the dream begin,_ yes, that had been it, those words he had echoed just now, just now on this very stage, standing before her like she wouldn’t recognize him at the ends of the earth. _She hadn’t, like a fool._  

And the other point is his demise. She does not know whether he knows that she knows that he is here before her. Is he confident in his power, does he believe her enthralled by his voice, by his touch once more? Has he perhaps underestimated her abilities, her sense of self, underestimated the strength of her desire for something more than this endless fear? She has but a moment, she knows this, but a moment before someone cottons on, whether it is her Angel or her Raoul who realizes that the scene is not going as planned. She has but a moment to decide whether she will see this through, whether she will deliver him to his end the way she must, or she will let him slip through their fingers, let him take her with him. She does not want to take her eyes off of him, _just in case,_ her Angel, her nightmare, her blessed fantasy. Has he really come to her in the flesh, before all these people? 

Yes, she thinks, he has. He has risked everything to be there with her, only it is not for her. It has never been for her, it has only ever been for his own benefit, to his own ends. This whole thing has been to his own end. She does not want to let him win again. 

As she sings them, it strikes her again how curiously true the words are. She has succumbed to him again and again in her mind, cannot pretend that her darkest fantasies in the midst of his firmest grasp on her did not imagine them intertwined, them, one. But everything has changed now, hasn’t it? Raoul had really been right, hadn’t he? And she had really been reaching that conclusion for years, hadn’t she? 

This must come to an end.

This must come to an end, but it will not be her ending. There is no room for wavering, no room for hesitation, past all point of thought of right or wrong. She has made her decision as she approaches the table, has made her choice and has truly reached the point of no return as she leans upon it, as she pretends she is none the wiser as she reaches for him, as she takes control of this whole damn thing. She will let him think he has won, let him think she is his once more, but she will not give herself over to him again. If no one else will notice, if they will watch entranced like this is part of the script, then she will have to do it all herself. She will have to keep him on this stage, come hell or high water, she will have to find a way to let everyone know. 

His hands shake. What a strange show of weakness from a man who has always seemed so much more than a man. They are cold in her own and she can feel him trembling as she presses herself against him. He is limp beneath her fingers as she pulls him closer to her, she has never known her Angel to be so utterly helpless, so completely undone at her doing, so utterly human. To be fair, she has never really known her Angel at all. Still, she can feel his spine rigid against her chest, can hear the short gasps of breath beneath his cloak as she croons into his ear, can feel the shake in his shoulders as she twines her arms around his neck. Her mind is racing, her heart is pounding, her thoughts are a jumble as she tries to arrive at a plan. There is no way to alert everyone to the danger without also alerting him to their action. There is no way out of this, no way forward that does not have him in it.

She makes to follow the blocking, to hurry to the other end of the stage where she is meant to lean against the fake apple tree, still singing, and Piangi is meant to kiss her madly and passionately, only with a snarl of anger the Phantom lunges after her, seizes her arm and fights to drag her center stage. Aha. Of course she cannot outwit him, of course he knows her game, he wrote the part, after all, but she has tricks up her sleeves to spare. It is terrifying and thrilling, his physical grasp, this battle of voices and wills as they stand alone before the world, hundreds of eyes upon them like some culmination of that night at the Masquerade Ball. 

He is not supposed to be singing, but she has to admit that this moment sounds much better as a duet than it did her solo. Their voices together are entrancing, as she has always suspected they would be, and perhaps his physical fight—for she is putting up great resistance—to pull her with him will notify someone to what is happening. She is growing a little panicked now; he is strong and his hands are tight around her elbows.

For a moment, when this strange dance had begun, it had seemed as if they were singing two different songs. As if, for a moment, he had truly believed she might go with him, truly believed she might choose _him,_ after everything. But the gig is up, now, and she can practically see the twisting rage in his face behind the cloak as she tears herself from his grasp, as he spits at her _the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn._ She’s made her choice, they’ve passed the point of no return, now. They have made a real spectacle of it all, here, and the audience may be none the wiser but somebody else _must_ be. Only nobody is doing anything, she cannot hear any activity in the wings, cannot tell if someone is ready to put a stop to this, however they must. He is singing that final line, matching her word for word, and approaching her. Part of her wants to run. She wants to turn and run and never look back, leave this for someone else to sort out and flee the country, the continent, this life. He is terrible, a black specter of death, and she knows—she _knows—_ with everything in her that she has done it now. She’s made her choice and there is no turning back, he will have her or she will have him, and there is only one thing to be done. 

So she stands her ground, she lets him close in on her, lets him reach for her as if a lover. And when he is there, when his chest is heaving before her as they sing those final words, as they look each other in the eyes and know that they’ve truly gone too far, this time, she pulls his hood back. 

There is silence. 

A peculiar thing, after such a dramatic show. They deserve applause. They deserve a standing ovation. They deserve flowers and admirers and rave reviews for weeks to come. And all they get is silence. 

And the thing is, he is silent, too. There is no gasp of surprise or growl of anger, there are no spiteful words spat at her on stage, there is only silence. And as they stare at each other, lock eyes for what feels like the first time ever, she sees so many things. Betrayal, hurt, anger, fear, horror. His lip is trembling. How curious. 

Frankly, she has never been more scared in her life. She does not know what he will do, not now that she has crossed every line he’s ever drawn and revealed him here as a man, revealed him before the world, but she does not want to underestimate him. There must be a hundred guns trained on them, a hundred pairs of eyes and then some. He blinks at her, blinks away some of that fear and horror and rage and all that is left is sadness and he turns his back on her. He has never turned his back on her like that. This is her chance. 

She makes to run offstage, to run as far as she can from this stupid fucking place and everything that’s ever happened in it, to run from all her broken promises and her betrayals and her secrets, but Raoul is there, one hand held in a gesture to stop her and the other holding a gun trained just over her shoulder. 

Oh, Raoul. He had noticed, after all. She had been a fool for thinking he would not, when he has proved himself the only effective antidote to her Angel’s poison. He is holding a gun, though, and taking a silent step towards her, shushing her with a finger against his lips and telling with her eyes _wait, stay where you are, for God’s sake do not move._ His hand does not shake with the weight of the gun, and she realizes that this had been his plan all along. Of course her Angel must die, if angels can. She had been foolish to think it might end any other way. Her heart is beating so fast _she_ might die, and she wants to run, but she is frozen in place. 

And then he starts to sing and _oh, of course, this is how._ This is how he had earned her trust—some twisted version of her love—in the beginning, and this is how he will kill her, isn’t it? His voice is so beautiful. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever heard. It is not so surprising that she once thought him the Angel of Music, because isn’t he? 

He is singing to her, she realizes, only to her. Her heart is hurting, heart is aching as he echoes to her words she has heard in another, infinitely happier life, as he gazes at her across the chasm between them. His melody is so beautiful and so tinged with bitterness, it makes her stop, makes everything stop, makes them all _listen._  

It is cruel to tease her like this. He is being _cruel,_ as he has shown a tendency to do, only she does not think it is intentional this time. She thinks this is genuine, this terrible pain he has been harboring all this time, and her breath stutters as slowly—oh, so slowly—she turns to face him. He is gazing at her, _singing to her,_ with all the pain in the world in his eyes, and she cannot help but wonder who hurt him so. Was it her? 

It must have been for she realizes, now, that he is echoing those words she and Raoul had said to each other on the rooftop in June. He is asking—no, _begging_ —her to love him, to want him, to end his solitude and save him from himself, and oh some part of her, some terrible, terrible part of her, wants to. Only she knows the way this song makes her heart feel; it makes it flutter like blue eyes in the morning or midday or night, makes it light and airy like a made-up dance at a masquerade ball, makes it clear and bright and brilliantly in love. 

And not with him.

She has unknowingly drifted towards him, though, nevertheless, the way she always does. Unknowingly drifted within arm’s reach of him as he has advanced upon her, perhaps in wary hope and perhaps in pursuit. They meet eyes, for a moment, a heartbeat, the space of a breath, and she realizes his hand is outstretched. In it, a ring.

_Oh._

There is a choice to be made, here, she supposes. There is a world, another life, another universe filled with fewer tragedies, in which she says yes. But it is not this one. It is not this world, not this world where she has never even had the chance to wear her fiancé’s ring on her finger, not this world where she has had everything stolen from her by this man before her—for that is all he is, now, here, a man—pretending as if they stand a fighting chance, not this world where she has made up her mind already. 

She is wondering what to do, wondering whether if she ducks Raoul will shoot, if she can stand to watch her Angel bleed out on the ground before her, if she can be complicit in his _murder_ when that had never been her true intention, wondering if she can hit him, stun him, run from him, but before she can do any of these things or arrive at any sort of conclusion at all he is grabbing her hand and forcing the ring upon her finger. 

It is this that makes her choice, ironically; him making this choice for her, as he has always done. He has never really asked, never really allowed for any decision, has only taken, as he has now. Taken the joy of her engagement and taken the joy of her life, her youth, and she stares at this ring for one second, and then looks at his eyes. 

He is silent, too, for a moment, staring back, and when he opens his mouth again it is to speak, rather than to sing. “Christine,” he says, voice so soft it is scarcely a whisper, “this is all I ask of you.” 

It’s too much. He is asking too much. He has been asking too much for a long time now, but this is the end, and she knows it. For a moment he seems to think she has acquiesced, that she will go as his living bride willingly to the undead world below, and for a moment she thinks so too, only then she is seized by fearlessness. 

Fearlessness driven by her father’s voice in her ear, she thinks, Gustave Daaé telling his daughter on his deathbed how he’d always wanted something more for her. This is not her something more, this is not her ending. 

Before she can stop to think about it, before she can contemplate the consequences of her actions, she reaches up and wrenches the mask from his face. 

This time, there is no silence. There is a scream from the audience, about whom, frankly, she had entirely forgotten, and a number of shouts from men in the wings—Raoul, Philippe, the Managers, and the Captain of the Guard audible among them—as she derails the plan, and there is, worst of all, his terrible scream. 

It rents the air, it is a scream of agony like he’s been shot only she doesn’t remember hearing the gunshot, a scream of anger and betrayal like she’s killed him herself, and maybe she has. He is as terrible to behold as he was that night a year ago, face contorted in rage and pain, and she is too stunned by her own actions to resist when he seizes her by the wrist again and drags her offstage. She hears Raoul shout “Don’t shoot!” and then hears the sound of gunfire that makes her ears ring, hears a bullet whistle so close to her she can taste her life on the tip of her tongue, hears terrible screaming several seconds delayed, and then she is being plunged into darkness once more. 

Their wild flight down once more to his dungeon, his self-imposed prison, is so unlike that journey once before. There is nothing dreamlike or fascinating, nothing beautiful or mysterious this time. She is painfully aware of everything; of the imposing damp chill of the walls around her and the unevenness of the ground; of the sound of the screaming eerily silenced by the slamming of a trap door just off the stage; of his hand in hers, cold and insistent and terrifyingly strong, unyielding even as she struggles and twists in his grip; of his ragged breaths as they journey ever deeper into this darkness. It is so dark she barely see anything around her, the only sure thing in the world is that hand in hers as it pulls her ever downward, downward, downward.  There a pain in her ankle—she thinks she twisted it in Aminta’s stupid heeled boots as he’d dragged her through that mysterious trap door—and he is certainly leaving a terrible bruise on her wrist, but still she does not stop fighting, scrabbling at the wall for anything to hold on to, digging in her heels and trying to slow his descent. 

He growls as she tries this again and actually manages to get him to stop, and though he turns to glare at her, he does not loosen his grip on her arm. 

“Why are you doing this?” she manages to gasp, still fighting to break free. As her eyes adjust to the dark he comes into focus, a menace.

“Why?” he spits. “Why am I doing this? I think the better question is why I’ve been _forced_ to do this! Why I’ve been met with hatred at every turn, why I’ve been driven underground by the cruelty of the rest of the world when I did nothing, why _you’ve_ done this to me!” She is trembling with fear at his rage. He looks like a madman, leering at her in the darkness, chest heaving and eyes wild. He grabs her by the shoulders, suddenly, his voice falling to a hush. “Why, Christine?” he asks, and it is anguish that leaves his mouth instead of anger, pure anguish, “Why?” 

She is so stunned by this outburst that she forgets to fight for a moment as he grabs her arm and yanks it again, and she falls to the ground.

“Get up,” he snarls as she scrambles to her feet, dusting off her dress and her skinned palms. As quickly as it was there that flash of something other than rage is gone and she is back in the hands of this merciless mystery.

She is trying to quell the rising panic in her chest. Surely this is the end; he will kill her for this sin of hers, or he will force her to stay with him forever, it is a death sentence either way. Even if she managed to escape she would surely lose herself in these catacombs beneath the opera. This is his world, not hers, and she is sure that he knows it better than anyone. She’d be trapped here forever, destined to lie unburied and unremembered in the darkness. 

The lake is somehow closer and farther than she remembers. It is all dreadfully clear, now, in a way that it hadn’t been on that wildest of nights all that time ago; there is nothing lovely or beautiful about this underground Eden. The candles do not look like stars but miserable pinpricks of light in an otherwise unbroken darkness, the twisting metal does not look like trees or vines but casts terrifying shadows across the place. The air is damp and it is cold but she is sweating after this mad dash into the bowels of the opera house. There _is_ a house, she sees it now, a small structure that even seems to have windows, though why she cannot imagine. He pulls her towards it and they lurch inside, him locking the door—why does the door have a lock?—behind them. 

The inside of the house is bizarre and unsettling in every way. There are no hangings on the walls, no photographs or trinkets atop a mantle, only a tall bookcase lined with tomes of every shape and color. The furniture is grandiose in a twisted and ugly way, like bizarre pieces of every style salvaged from destruction only to end up here, in a half-new life. There is enough seating to entertain—how curious—and a table to seat six for meals, and the kitchen is small but has all the trappings of a normal kitchen. Christine is mesmerized by this strange inverted world but hardly has the chance to consider it before he is pushing her towards a door. She tumbles through when he opens it and finds herself in a room dominated by a large, perfectly made bed. This only catches her eye for a moment though, and then it is drawn to something infinitely stranger and more terrifying. 

A full-length mirror, just like the one in her dressing room, and she draws near because for a moment she thinks she is looking at her reflection, only her reflection is wearing a white gown instead of her peach _Don Juan Triumphant_ dress. As she draws closer she realizes that she cannot be looking at her reflection, because the mirror—like the one in her dressing room—is shattered. She reaches out a hand and it meets her own cold finger, and then the mannequin suddenly tips forward and Christine leaps back in fright, only to collide with the silent Angel standing behind her. His arms wrap around her, cold and lean and strong—not at all like Raoul’s comforting embrace—and he turns her to face him. 

His face is frightful, yes, only this is not what is so terrifying about him anymore. She’s long made her peace with that half-corpse that haunts her dreams. It is the unhinged look in his eyes, some terrible mixture of anger and hunger and desire and pain that causes her to instinctively take a step back. This is the wrong thing to do and he snarls and drags her closer, turning her around to face the half mirror and beginning to tear at the stays of her dress. 

 _Oh._ Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, and she fights against him, only he is much taller and much stronger and he manages to get her peach dress torn from her body in a heartbeat and tosses it on the ground. She closes her eyes and lashes out but her hands meet empty air, and when she dares open them he is not standing before her any longer. She contemplates running for the door, but she is again faced with the trouble of not knowing where to go or how to navigate in this darkness, and so she doesn’t move. When he reappears, though, she realizes he has the dress in hands. 

Oh. _Oh._ The ring, the dress, she sees it now. She does not have a choice before he is pushing her into the pile of fabric. He is not nearly as gentle as Marie is when it comes to dressing her, laces up the stays on the dress with unnecessary force. Christine cannot make herself stop him, only allows herself to be dressed like a doll, casting her eyes wildly about for a weapon, for anything. She has to take long enough to admire the handiwork of the dress, though, as he forces it onto her body. She has never worn anything so beautiful, so fine. There are layers and layers of fabric and beading, so many layers she might drown under the weight of it, but every detail is intricate and lovely. The long train trails behind her as he kicks it out of the way and ties the bow at the bustle, the lace around her color sweeps down her bosom as he fastens the buttons up her back. She cannot help but think that it might be something she once would have picked out for herself. But she sets all these thoughts aside as she spies a heavy book resting on a desk by the bed, and as he finally ties the last of the tiers of skirts onto her body and turns around to the mannequin, she seizes her chance, snatches up the book, and hits him over the head with it. 

He curses and stumbles forward, but she does not wait to see if she was successful or not in felling him, only lunges for the door, yanking it shut behind her to slow him and tearing through the house, frantically undoing the lock and scrambling outside. She ignores the fear in her gut and runs away from the house, struggling not the trip under the weight of the dress and the unevenness of the stones. She runs towards an especially dense grove of candles, where she recognizes the grand organ and the path to the little boat floating in the water. She realizes they must have come from a different direction, a different entrance, and that what she had originally taken to be an island is actually just the opposite bank of a vast lake. Beyond the boat she can see perhaps salvation, a tunnel with a little illumination in it that she suspects must be how they reached this place the first time, why they had approached this grove without her seeing the house. Perhaps she is wrong and utterly turned around but it is, at the very least, a direction, and she tries to get to the little boat. If she can get into the water, _then_ she can figure out what to do next. It doesn’t matter though, because she sees with a sudden shock of devastation that causes her to stop in her tracks that the tunnel is gated by a portcullis, and even if she were to make it on the boat that little tributary is no more a viable option than whatever other paths lead out of this godforsaken place. She shakes her head, it is no matter, the water is still safer than the land, presumably, but this brief moment of uncertainty costs her dearly as suddenly there is a sharp blow to her cheek that sends her reeling and falling to the ground. 

“That’s a terrible way to treat your fiancé, don’t you think?” he snaps, suddenly in her sight again. He hauls her up by the arm and pulls her up the path towards the grove of candles. The little boat, her only hope for escape, slips out of sight of. 

“ _You_ are not my fiancé,” she spits. “Raoul is—” 

“ _Raoul!”_ he snarls. “That insolent _boy!_ That foolish suitor! Thinking _he_ can win your heart! It is rather regrettable, though I will admit that it is largely my fault. I made you irresistible, of course he would fall in love with you as soon as he heard you sing. How could anyone not?”

“Raoul is not in love with my voice,” Christine snaps, fighting back against his pull. “He loves _me._ We are to be married.” 

“And yet, it is not his ring upon your finger,” the Phantom says, tossing her to the ground like a ragdoll. 

She catches herself on her hands and knees and takes but one second to catch her breath, resisting the urge to vomit and instead clambering to her feet to take in her surroundings. Now her mind is clear she has a much better understanding of what this whole place looks like; they are up at what seems to be the edge of the cavern, where the grand pipe organ is built into the wall, surrounded by candelabras and drenched in flickering light. Beside it sits the music box with the monkey that she remembers so clearly from her last visit here, a remnant of a different time. A little ways to the side she sees another small tunnel blocked by a portcullis, hears it dripping water onto the ground, and realizes that this must be another entrance to this strange cavern, but the gate makes it useless. The winding steps lead down to the boat, she knows, but that seems currently out of the question because the Phantom is standing at the top of them, staring at her and breathing heavily. She is trapped. 

“What do you want?” she asks, though she knows it’s a foolish question. It is very obvious what he wants, but if she can keep him talking, keep him distracted, maybe she can find some way to get out of here. “You’ve had your fill of blood? You want to settle down, now, a wife and kids and a comfortable life? You couldn’t kill me, and so you will force me to marry you?” She cannot help the bitter sarcasm in her voice, will not stop it. 

He looks quite unhinged as he stares at her, eyes wide and boring into her own and clutching a veil in his shaking hands. “I killed because I had to,” he says, with a terrifying calmness in his voice. “I killed when it was necessary to save myself. That drunkard of a stagehand was threatening to talk, to reveal my secret, and he had to be taken care of. The foolish tenor would never have stayed quiet after seeing me onstage. If everyone knew, they would never let me live a day in peace again! They would hunt me down, lock me up, laugh at me and spit in my face, turn me into a freakshow. I had to kill them, or risk my secret being exposed… This is my life, that is my fate.  It has left me isolated, it has left me alone, it has denied me companionship… The pleasures of the flesh.” 

He is standing before her and she turns, feeling bile rise in her throat. She is going to be sick. Going to be sick because these words are coming out of his mouth really and truly before her, because he is _justifying_ what he has done and is, in the same breath, justifying what he is about to do. And the terrible thing is he really believes it, and she almost feels a shred of pity for him, beneath the fear and revulsion. He has been alone for so long, ostracized over something he can’t control, it has driven him to this way of thinking. 

“It has ruined us,” he says. “This face, this terrible face.” He is lost in his own thoughts, and Christine does not dare turn around to face him lest he remember she is there. She takes the moment to search her surroundings once more for anything, _anything_ she can use to help herself. Only as he begins talking again, the words tug at her heartstrings in a strange way, she cannot help but listen. “The first moment my mother laid eyes on me, fresh out of the womb, she screamed. She thought she had given birth to a demon, a _monster._ Perhaps she had,” he muses, “perhaps she had. 

“But the priest came, bade her keep me, raise me, lest she herself go to hell. I was her penance for an affair, for a child out of wedlock. And so by the time I could walk she had fitted me with a mask… an old scrap from one of her skirts, with holes for my eyes and mouth. She never looked at me, if she could help it, never let me go to town, and I ran away as soon as I could.” He is gazing into the distance, his face twisted with malice as he recounts this bitter tale, and she turns to stare It is terrible to hear, terrible to even contemplate, and she knows for certain this is pity, this is compassion stirring her heart as he continues his story, even in spite of anything. He has lived a terrible life, full of terrible things, and she feels _bad_ for him. “I’ve been alone ever since, traveling, doing odd jobs, an inventor here, architect there, a performer and an artist across the continent, until, eventually, I came here.

“They were building an opera house, they said, and I offered my services. Everything was going smoothly until we ran into a tributary of the Seine in the foundation, and couldn’t keep the water out. They decided that the cavern would have to stay, they’d build around it, and I saw the opportunity to disappear at last. So while we built the opera house I secretly built my own set of doors and tunnels, an opera house within an opera house, and I turned this cavern into my home. I have haunted the opera house this entire time, a ghost of a man, happy to be alone, until _you_ came along.” His eyes fall upon her and they hold her gaze for a moment; she gets the feeling that he is seeing her without truly seeing her, this odd sight of her in a wedding dress in his underground home, that he is only looking at her as perhaps he has dreamed her, forgetting she is here in the flesh. 

“What have you done to me, Christine?” he asks, quiet and soft in the darkness. “You have brought a sinner to God, taught a hated man to love. How can that be?” She doesn’t dare to speak, doesn’t dare to breathe, doesn’t dare to remind him that she stands before him. He sounds so broken-hearted, so anguished, that she cannot help but shed a tear. “It’s too late for your pity, now,” he spits, that wild rage flaring to life once more in his eyes, and she turns away in fear, turns to run, only he grabs her, forces the veil upon her head. “You can’t even bear to look at me, can you? Look at me!” His roar is terrible and he grabs her by the chin, forces her to look upon the scarred half of his face, but she does not shrink back. 

It is terrible, yes, as terrible as she remembered it, stranger than she dreamt it, only it does not scare her. His face is not the most terrible thing about him, this haunted corpse’s flesh that had plagued her nightmares for so long. She could spend an eternity gazing upon that face, if she really had to. She could do it, grow used to its horror, if it belonged to a different man. A kinder man, a man whose soul was not warped beyond all recognition. She gazes upon him coldly, all scraps of pity wiped from her heart, her own rage burning a slow and steady fire in her belly. 

“The horror is not in your face,” she says, “it is in your soul.” 

There is a long moment in which they stand in this strange embrace, his hand upon her face and hers balled in fists against his chest, ready to strike. His eyes are unreadable, full of cold malice and regret and anger and hurt and one hundred other emotions she has never seen before, never imagined the human heart might be capable of. Only this human heart is clearly capable of many things, wicked and wondrous, a human heart incomprehensible as such. She does not know if he means to kiss her or to kill her, and it seems that he does not know either, but before anything can happen there is the faint shuffling noise from the little tunnel beyond the organ and he tears his gaze from hers to look. 

“My dear,” he says. A wicked grin spreads across his face, and cold dread douses the flames of anger in Christine’s belly. “We have a guest.” He lets go of her and takes a step towards the tunnel and she turns to see who has come. 

 _“Raoul!”_ she screams, the most terrible scream, because her worst fears have been confirmed. He is gasping, damp with sweat and out of breath, barely in sight as if he had been trying to hide. 

“Welcome, Monsieur le Vicomte!” cries her Angel, spreading his eyes wide as if there is no one he would rather see at this moment. “What an honor it is indeed! How I had hoped you might join us and look, here you are! You have truly made my night!” Raoul moves into the light, closer to the portcullis, and Christine realizes with a shock that he is holding the gun trained on her Angel, his hand alarmingly steady even after what she’s sure was a treacherous journey to this lair. 

Her Angel realizes this too, and before anyone can do anything he seizes Christine around the throat, his skeletal hand silencing her windpipe. 

“I wouldn’t,” he snarls at Raoul, who screams as Christine tries for a shout. “Put the gun down, Monsieur, or I break her neck.” 

Raoul glares at him but does as he asks, sets the gun on the ground and grabs the bars of the portcullis, pulling with all his might to lift them. “Let her go!” he shouts, “take me! I’m the reason you’re so upset! Do what you will with me, only let Christine go! Haven’t you any pity?” 

Christine’s heart is pounding, her head is racing, she can’t _breathe,_ Raoul is _here_ and on the one hand that is brilliant because Raoul is brilliant and if there is anyone who could get them out of this it _is_ him, but on the other hand it is terrible because there is no one who can get them out of this. Raoul has come all this way to save her, playing the gallant fool once more, and now both their lives are in danger. His voice is so terribly thick with fear and his face is twisted in desperation, his cheeks are flushed. Christine scrabbles at the back of the Phantom’s hand, clutches at his wrist and tries to drag it from her throat, but it is no use. He squeezes tighter and black dots appear at her vision, her own grip loosens. 

“A passionate plea from your lover,” he simpers, coming close to her face and stealing some of what little air she has left in her lungs. She gasps, struggles to breathe in the space between his fingers and her throat, gathers enough air only to lessen the spots across her eyes. 

She uses it wisely, to cry, “Raoul, don’t!” but then her Angel’s hand has resumed its chokehold once more and it is all she can do to keep her eyes open when sinking into oblivion might be so much sweeter. 

“Stop!” cries Raoul, “Please, I beg of you, just stop this madness! I love her, doesn’t that mean anything? _I love her!”_

 _“You love her!”_ mocks her Angel, jerking her closer to his chest. “She was never yours to love, Monsieur!” 

“Show some compassion!” Raoul begs. 

“Like the world showed to me?” spits the Phantom.

Christine’s eyes flutter shut because she cannot bear to watch this play out before her. Her lungs are screaming and her head feels like it has been stuffed full of cotton, she feels as if she could sink to the ground and be very happy right now if only they would both stop yelling. 

“For God’s sake, you’re going to kill her!” cries Raoul, and she forces her eyes open, forces herself to seek him out in the dark. He looks like an angel, his hand stretched toward her through the portcullis and his shirt dirty and damp, an angel nonetheless. “Christine,” he calls again, softer, now he sees he has her attention. “Christine, look at me, I’m here.” 

 _“Christine, I’m here!”_

“Stop that!” cries Raoul, and the Phantom laughs. “Christine, Christine,” Raoul calls again, and she is trying so hard to look at him only she cannot keep her eyes open any longer, her dress is suddenly heavier than before and she is sinking to the floor. “ _Let me see her!”_ His voice is the most terrible thing she has ever heard. She has never heard that sweet and lovely voice sound so full of anguish and of fear and of distress, and perhaps it is this that at last gets to the Phantom, or more likely it is that Christine’s eyes flutter shut again and she loses her grip on his wrist entirely, he is almost entirely supporting her weight by her neck and she is pulling him down as she is falling so painfully slowly. 

“Be my guest!” he roars, releasing her so suddenly she hits the ground like a sack of rocks. He is gone from her side and she is dimly aware of the sound of the grate rising before Raoul is there and helping her to sit up as she takes dizzying gulps of air, clutching at his bicep. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, gently rubbing her back with one hand and searching her face for any injuries with the other, “slow down, deep breaths.” She tries to follow his advice, to match her breaths to his, slow and steady as the world comes back into focus and the darkness recedes from her vision again and her heartbeat returns to somewhat normal. “Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple like he is coaching her through an anxiety spell before a garden party, not helping her to regain her breath in this dungeon. 

“What are you doing here?” she whispers, reaching for his face to make sure it is real under her fingertips. She is shaking so hard and her neck aches, her throat feels like sandpaper. “You shouldn’t have come! You need to leave!” 

“I won’t leave you here,” he whispers, “I’m going to get you out of this, I promise.” He tilts her head back, inspecting further for any sign of injuries. His fingertips trace her cheek where she’s sure the Phantom’s hand left a mark, featherlight and warm as they ghost across her throat. She shivers at the thought of her Angel’s cold fingers, their vicelike grip. 

“Raoul, it’s useless—” 

“I promise,” he says again, “everything will be all right.” 

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against his. She might never get the chance to say that again, does he know that? “I love you so much, but you _must_ leave.” 

“Shh,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I am here, and you’re going to be alright.” 

“She is perfectly alright,” muses the Phantom. Christine jumps, she had almost forgotten he is here, and Raoul pulls her closer to his chest. “You cannot have thought that I would harm her, Monsieur.” 

“What reason have you given me to think that?” Raoul snaps. He makes to rise but Christine clutches him to her in fear. He presses another kiss to her head and gently extricates himself from her grip, turning to face the Phantom, who has suddenly disappeared. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, not when it comes to opera, not when it comes to management, and _certainly_ not when it comes to Christine’s wellbeing.” 

“You wound me,” says the Phantom, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Christine cannot see him, he has moved beyond the candlelight, but that only makes this more dangerous. She shakes her head frantically at Raoul, who makes a placating gesture at her with his hand as he gazes around, squinting at the dark void beyond this strange little grove. “I have only ever been concerned for her wellbeing, only ever had her best interests at heart.” 

“Have you?” Raoul asks. “Did you not try to kill her twice in the past year? Did you not spend months forcing her to starve herself and not sleep, making her sick with anxiety?” 

If this bothers the Phantom, if this makes him think, he does not indicate it, is only resolute in his declaration. “I would never hurt her,” he says, _lies._ “Why should I, when it is your crimes which have caused all this?” Quick as a flash he is back in the light and has slung a terrible red noose around Raoul’s neck, pulls it taught. 

 _“No!”_ Christine cannot help the scream that tears itself from her throat as Raoul grabs at the rope around his neck to keep it from going taut. She leaps to her feet, her heart in her throat as the Phantom drags Raoul backwards and slings the other end of the rope over a nearby metal structure, forcing Raoul onto his toes to keep from cutting off his air completely.

“Didn’t anyone tell you to keep your hand at the level of your eyes?” the Phantom says, cruel and teasing with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he delights in Raoul’s struggle. Christine can see the dismay in Raoul’s eyes—how had he forgotten such important advice?—but it doesn’t matter. She tries to go to him but the Phantom stops her with his arm. “No one can save you now,” he snarls, spitting in Raoul’s face. 

“No!” she cries, shoving him aside with a sudden burst of strength. She pulls at the rope but it’s no use, she is too short to do much good, only worries that she will make things worse. She clutches at Raoul’s face, warm under her fingers, and shakes her head, horrified. “Please!” she begs, turning to the Phantom. “Let him go, he hasn’t done anything to you!” 

“Hasn’t done anything to me?” spits the Phantom. “He has stolen you from me, he has befuddled your mind with thoughts of fine horses and summertime, of wicked daylight! And now, he will pay for his sins.” 

“No!” Christine says. _“You promised!”_

“I promised?” whispers her Angel. “You forget, I think, the conditions of our deal.”

Christine is so angry she wants to attack him, but she cannot look away from Raoul. His eyes are blue like the sky at dusk, she can see him searching hers. “What’s he talking about, Christine?” he rasps, “What deal?” 

“I made a deal,” she whispered, “to keep his secret, to be his angel, if only he would spare your life.” 

Raoul moans, softly. “Christine, tell me you didn’t,” he whispers. She had known he would be upset to know she had traded her freedom for his life, and she had been right. “Tell me you did not strike a bargain with this monster.” 

She cannot bring herself to say anything, she is so frustrated, so angry. The tears well in her eyes and the Phantom laughs behind her, bitterly. 

“That’s right,” he says. “She made a deal. Two, actually, and you see, I was really quite generous. I abided by the terms of our agreement, I left you well alone as long as she sang for me. And it was grand! We had the best of times, only _you_ were insistent, Monsieur, upon courting her and defiling her, and _she_ broke our promise. Twice.” 

“Christine,” Raoul is searching her face, drinking it in. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I was trying to keep you safe.” 

Behind her she can hear the sound of the Phantom’s footsteps approaching them and she turns, spreading her arms wide so he cannot touch Raoul. He watches her with an unreadable expression upon her face, some cocktail of revulsion and amusement. “Please,” she says, gazing upon those horrible features. His gaze is cold and bitter as he looks down at her. “I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything,” the Phantom muses. “But you’ve said that before, my dear.” 

“I mean it,” she whispers. “Just let him go.” 

“Christine!” cries Raoul, “Don’t!” 

“Silence!” roars the Phantom, with such power that it does seem to strike Raoul dumb for a moment. “I must think. Anything, you say…” 

“Anything,” she echoes. 

“I am not unreasonable,” says the Phantom, softly, taking her hand and drawing her from Raoul. She follows him towards the candles, away from Raoul, heart hammering in her chest. “Though you have proved to be a liar, to be deceitful in the past, I know that it is not your fault, my Christine,” he says. “You have been corrupted by your lover’s influence, and I am forgiving. I will, in my infinite generosity, offer you one more chance.” 

“What is it?” Christine asks. “What do you want?”

“Your life,” the Phantom says, “for his.”

“No!” Raoul cries. “Christine, you mustn’t!” 

The Phantom ignores him, holds Christine’s gaze. “Start a new life with me,” he says. “Marry me, be my living bride and promise to remain by my side forever. We will spend our days together, husband and wife.” 

The thought makes her sick. “And if I refuse?” she asks, soft as a breath. 

“He dies,” the Phantom says, simply. “This is your choice.” 

It is twisted every way, horrible and cruel. She had known from the second she’d seen the dress that this is what he’d wanted all along, but it is unimaginably worse to hear him say it. It is unimaginably worse to hear him say it like _this._ For him to make Raoul hear, to make Raoul know that she must choose between her Angel and her love, know that either way she chooses she must be parted from him, to make Raoul feel as if this is all his fault. How dare he? How dare he present this to her as if it is a choice, as if there is any way forward that does not have him in it? This is not a choice, there has never truly been one. It has always been Raoul, it is always ever going to be Raoul, only know choosing Raoul either way means that she will lose him. It would be better if he had not given her this ultimatum at all, if he had killed her when they were alone, if Raoul had never found the way down here and never had to see this dreadful decision set before her. 

“I hate you,” she says without thinking. _“I hate you!”_  

It is true, it is entirely true. She might have pitied him once; might have shed tears for this miserable wretch consigned to a life of darkness and isolation, but that is gone. She has never hated someone more than she hates him right now, standing before her with the _nerve_ to look shocked and hurt at her declaration, the nerve to turn away from her with what she swears are tears in his eyes in the brief moment she can see his face. She hates him because he is going to do this, he is going to make her choose between him and Raoul like that is a choice at all, like there is a better option between dying here with him or dying in the world above without Raoul. How can she have thought him her friend, her Angel? How can she have thought him anything better than a twisted and cruel man, a soul tortured beyond recognition? Her world is crumbling around her as she stares at his back, rising and falling with the force of what might be angry breaths, what might be silent sobs.

He has shattered all illusions of love she might have held for him, any way she might have deluded herself into thinking he ever cared for her. Someone who loved her would not make her choose like this, someone who loved her would not put her through this. This is her point of no return, she knows it with certainty, but it is bitter and cruel and terrible certainty that shows her the answer, the only answer. She loves Raoul so much, so much that she is willing to die for him as he had been for her, so much that she will do anything to free him. Still, she will not let her Angel win like this, will not let him think she is a willing prisoner. 

“You are cruel,” she spits.

“Maybe so,” he spits back, still not turning to face her. 

“Christine,” calls Raoul, and she is terrified to hear how faint his voice is. She runs to him, tries again to pull on the rope to no avail, tries to support him any way she can to take some of the pressure off his throat. “Forgive me,” he whispers, “please forgive me.” 

“Raoul, you silly boy,” she whispers. How dare he do this to her? How dare he apologize to her for trying to clean up this dreadful mess that she made? It reminds her of that night all those months ago, before their confessions of love and before this horrible fate that is crashing down around them, when he’d apologized for scaring her into breaking her cup. How she’d been horrified then, too, that he had gotten hurt on her behalf. 

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “I did it all for you, and all for nothing.” 

“No,” she murmurs, reaching up to wipe a tear from his face with her thumb. He leans into her touch for just a moment, can’t breathe and has to tilt his head away again. “This is not your fault.” 

“Not his fault,” the Phantom growls behind her. “It is all his fault!” 

“No,” she says, turning and placing her body firmly between him and Raoul once more. “It is yours. I might have pitied you once, but I have never loved you. I will never love you.” 

He looks as if she’s struck him, reels for a moment before he rearranges his face into careful anger once more. The sight of it does not repulse her anymore, not this death’s head, it is the sight of him at all. “I don’t want your pity,” he spits. “Your pity, your prayers, they are pointless. I have given you your choice. You stay and I will let him go, or he dies and you are free to leave me. What will it be?” 

“Christine,” Raoul says, behind her, “go, save yourself. Leave me, go free. If you say you love him, it will kill me anyway. He wins either way, but at least this way you have a chance at a life.” 

“That is right, Monsieur le Vicomte,” sneers the Phantom, “I win either way.” 

“Raoul,” she says, “I don’t want a life without you in it. I love _you!”_

The Phantom scoffs, and Raoul growls in rage. “Why put her through this?” he asks, pulling again at the rope with renewed force. “Why make her lie to you to save me?”

“Silence!” roars the Phantom again, his rage spilling over once more. He grabs her, pulls her to his chest, towering over her. “You two are past the point of bargaining! This is your choice, Christine!” 

“Angel,” she whispers, staring at him in open horror. “Angel of Music, why?” Her heart aches at that old moniker, that remnant of a time she might have loved him, that lonely whisper in this darkness.

“Why?” he asks. “Because you are mine. You always have been, it is only time you see it that way.” 

“It’s not true! You belong to no one, dammit, say no, Christine!” Raoul shouts. “For Christ’s sake, save yourself!”

 _“Save yourself!”_ mocks the Phantom, cruelly. “From what? From your Angel of Music, Christine?” 

“I fought so hard to free you,” Raoul sobs, behind her, soft and heartbroken, but she cannot tear her eyes from her Angel. 

“Not hard enough,” the Phantom says, disdainfully.

“You _lied_ to me!” she shouts, suddenly, striking his chest with her fists. He releases her and she sinks to the ground at his feet, burying her face in her hands, her skirts pooling around her. “You _deceived_ me! You called yourself my Angel, you said you were my guardian, you learned my secrets and my dreams and my fears, you came to me when I was weak! You knew I would believe you, you knew I would go to you, and you _used_ my grief against me. How could you? How can you claim to be my Angel, knowing that I gave my mind to you blindly?” Her tears are falling thick and fast, tears of rage and frustration and anger and hurt and betrayal. How could he? How could he do this? 

He makes a strange noise, something like hurt and confusion and anger, and swiftly reaches for her throat once more. She cannot help but flinch, move slightly away, and he stops short, perhaps registering her fear, perhaps pitying her. His hand comes to a stop just before her, his face inches from hers, and he looks into her eyes. 

There is so much pain in his gaze. There always has been. They look at each other for a long moment, neither daring to breathe, neither daring to move. 

“You try my patience,” he finally says, then stands and turns his back to her. “Make your choice.” 

So this is it, then. She buries her face in her hands once more, blocks out the horrible sights and tries for some memory of a better time, something to give her the strength to do what she must. It is silent as the cavern itself seems to wait with baited breath, silent but for the sound of Raoul struggling against the noose, silent but for the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the distance, silent but for the sound of her Angel’s ragged breaths. 

What kind of life must he have known to believe that this is love? What kind of cruelty had warped him so? What kind of loneliness had twisted his mind, his soul? She says a silent prayer to God, to her Father, to anyone who might be listening, begs for the courage to follow through on her choice, to show him that he is not alone in this world. 

She is met with silence. 

This does not surprise her, because ghosts do not have voices and God has not spoken to her in a long time. In the end the only person who could ever give her this courage, this strength, this force of will, is herself. 

When she stands her legs shake, her hands shake, her whole body trembles, but it is with resolve and determination that she takes a step towards him. He stiffens, she can see it in his back, but he does not dare turn. It is the hardest thing she has ever done, the hardest six steps she has ever taken, closing this distance between them, but she does it, she takes them, she reaches for his shoulders and spins him to face her. 

He is gazing at her with something like fear and hesitation in his eyes, no trace of his earlier anger, but all this quickly changes when she grabs his shoulders and pulls him down to her before she can lose her nerve. 

His lips are strange beneath her own, surprisingly soft. She does not know what she had expected, but certainly not this. His hands are not touching her, she can feel his arms up in shock, as if she has pointed a gun at him and not kissed him with insistence. When she pulls away he is searching her face with confusion, eyes wide like a startled animal, and still he does not return her embrace as she pulls him close and presses her ear to his chest. She holds him to her for several long breaths, she counts her own because she cannot hear his, can only feel the trembling of his whole body as he tries to comprehend this. It strikes her that he must have never been held this way before, must have never been held in another’s arms as if by a lover, and she steels herself once more. She seizes his face—how curious the waxen flash feels beneath her fingers—and pulls it down to hers once more, presses her lips to his once more, loops her arms around his neck and keeps him there just once, just this one time. His arms fall to her waist but do not touch her, she can feel the shadow of his hands but he does not dare touch her, does not dare ruin this dream. 

She pulls away, wills herself to look at him and not move, and they stand face to face, chest to chest, heart to heart for a moment. It is the strangest thing, that her Angel stands before her in the flesh, that she has kissed her Angel in the way he has always wanted, in the way she might have wanted so long ago, but that now he looks at her with nothing but sadness in his eyes. For the longest moment they stare at each other, chests heaving, hearts racing, and she wills herself to stay upright, to not back down, to show him that she has made her choice. 

He is the first to move, the first to look away after several breaths, seconds, heartbeats, years. He turns his gaze from her and she stares at that corpse’s face, that ruined skin that does not terrify her, that has trapped a tortured soul within its cage. He takes a step, and then another, careful not to touch her as he moves past her, and she turns to follow him with her eyes. Her heart is in her throat once more as he crosses towards Raoul, who is looking on at this scene in horror. _Oh,_ she thinks, _poor Raoul, poor, sweet Raoul._ But she has made this choice, she will free her love and she will stay, she will never stop loving him but she will learn to live without him, learn, perhaps, in time, not to hate this monster. She does not truly believe any of these things, does not truly believe her heart will ever forget Raoul, but she will not be the cause for his death, not when he is young and beautiful and has so much life to live. 

Still she watches with fear in her heart as her Angel crosses slowly, _so slowly, please Raoul is dying, he cannot breathe go faster,_ to the nearest candelabra and retrieves a candle from it. He approaches Raoul, each step like a gunshot in the silence, and she cannot tell what he might do. Will he keep his word? She does not know what to think of him anymore, cannot predict his actions any longer, and takes a step towards them, hand out and stifling a gasp. 

He whirls on her and she stops, pauses, dares not move, dares not breathe. He looks wild, some terrible and incomprehensible expression on his face as he regards her before him, in her wedding dress with hand outstretched, disheveled and distraught in this darkness. 

“Please,” she whispers, brings her hand to her heart. He looks tortured, distraught, agonized, gazes at her like a ruined man.

He turns away once more and she waits, holds her breath as he comes close enough to Raoul to kiss him. She cannot see his face as he looks at Raoul, can only see Raoul meet him with what must be equal intensity and ferocity in his gaze. Slowly, _God,_ so slowly his hand reaches up, and suddenly the flame catches and the noose snaps. 

Raoul stumbles once and then falls, but she is already there to catch him. His weight almost sends the both of them to the ground but she manages to stay upright, to hold him up as he struggles to breathe. “Easy,” she whispers, echoing his advice from earlier, “slow down, deep breaths.” She coaches him through it, her hand on his abdomen forcing him to breathe slower and deeper, to remain upright. “It’s alright,” she whispers, before he can protest because she can see it in his eyes, see that he is going to do something foolish like offer to stay down here in her stead when she has given up everything to free him. “Go,” she says, “you have to go, Raoul, quickly.” 

“Christine,” he says, “I can’t leave you here.”

 _“Go!”_ screams the Phantom. It is more terrible than any other sound that has ever left his mouth before, shatters Christine’s heart into one million pieces. “Go, and take her!” 

“What?” she says, stupidly. 

“Leave,” gasps the Phantom, and Christine stares at him in shock. He is bent over the organ, supporting his weight upon it, like he has been shot. “Both of you! Get out!”

“But—” she starts, and he whirls on them, terrible in his anguish.

“Go!” he screams again. “Forget me! Get out of this place and swear—swear to me you will never tell! Never reveal the secret of your Angel!”

“I—”

“Go,” he says again, turning again to face them, staring at them with wild eyes. She wants to go to him, she does not understand. In the distance she hears something curious, the sound of shouting and footsteps. “Go now,” he moans like a wounded animal, addressing Raoul now since it has become clear that she is not comprehending. He takes a step towards them, one faltering step, and Raoul pulls her behind himself. “Take the boat, the tunnel, the gate will lift if you pull on it and the tunnel will lead you to a path. Take the first right, follow it until you reach a fork, then go left. There will be a staircase, and you must turn left again at the top. When you reach the end, look for a handle on the wall. Pull, and you will be free.” He says all this mechanically, like he is trying not to feel, not to comprehend these words, and Christine cannot fathom what is happening. Free? 

“Angel?” she whispers. 

“Leave me here!” he roars and turns from them once more, stumbling back to the organ. It is the most anguished sound she has ever heard. “Go, before it is too late, and leave me alone! _Now!”_  

Raoul, at least, has finally been spurred to action, and pulls on her arm. “Christine,” he murmurs, “come on, we have to go.” She lets him pull her away, away from her Angel, but she cannot take her eyes off his hunched form, off the trembling that she knows for certain is caused by his very human tears.

She blinks several times and realizes that she is too numb to cry, is out of tears, apparently, is too in shock to do anything other than nudge Raoul towards the path to the little boat. She stumbles numbly down it, holding onto his hand for dear life, still looking back until her Angel is out of sight. The footsteps and shouting is faint but still present, and she cannot fathom who has made their way down here. She stands listlessly as Raoul unmoors the little boat, finds the pole and steadies the craft with his foot. She cannot stop staring at the path that leads back to her Angel, cannot understand why he has let them go. Is this another trick? 

“Christine,” Raoul whispers, offering her his hand, and she turns to stare at it blankly for several breaths.

“I have to go back,” she says, looks into his eyes. They are not hurt or angry, just troubled, and he searches for answers in his. “I have to say goodbye.” 

He nods, once. “I’ll go with you,” he says. _God,_ he is so good, but she shakes her head.

“I need to do this alone,” she whispers. 

“Then I’ll wait,” he says, “I’ll wait right here for you.”

She nods, takes his hand and presses a kiss to his fingers, and then turns and climbs the stairs. It is like some strange twist on walking down an aisle, climbing those stairs by herself. Her dress is wickedly heavy and she is exhausted from this night, but she does not stop climbing. It feels endless, the way she imagines it might too during a real wedding, and the candles flickering beside her make it feel like a dream. Her heart is not racing, anymore, but beating a slow and steady rhythm to match her footsteps as she approaches the altar once more. 

He is crouched by the little music box, which is playing its tinkling song, and her mind flashes back to a different time, but that same song. He is singing softly, his hand covering the monkey’s face like a mask, his words unintelligible through his tears. He has not noticed her ascent, her return, and she watches for a moment, transfixed by this sad spectacle before her. 

Oh, pitiful creature. 

In a moment he stiffens, senses her as he always does, stands and turns to face her. His face is alight with hope as it has never been, a watery and unfamiliar smile twisting his lips. He looks far less threatening like this. He almost looks like someone she could love, only she knows, she knows she does not, knows it in her heart that he has gone too far, done too much. She shakes her head slightly, side to side, and his face crumbles like a ruin, his shoulders sag like an ancient tree. She cannot bring him comfort. 

But she can do him this kindness.

The ring is loose on her finger, fitted to a hand larger than hers, and it is easy to slip it off. Her hand trembles as she holds it outstretched to him, but he is not looking at her. She takes one more step, closes this distance between them, and reaches for the hand at his side. He looks on in wonder as she takes it, folds the ring into his grasp and presses a kiss to his fist. He nods, softly, and with a shock she sees those tears fall, falling like rain against her windows, falling like the first drops of a hurricane or the last drops of a summer storm, running like streams through the riverbeds scarred on his cheek. _Oh._  

She nods, too, and with every ounce of strength she has in her she lets go of his hand, lets go of her Angel that is not an angel, this figure more mystery than man, the Phantom of the opera house, and takes a step back, and another, turns to go. 

“Christine,” he calls, softly, sweetly, as reverently as the first time he had ever said her name when he had come to her in the chapel all those years ago, gingerly as a prayer. She stills, turns to look at him. This is a mistake, because his eyes look so human, they do not even burn this time. “I love you,” he says, only he says it so softly she does not recognize it as his voice. It is not the voice of her Angel and it is not the voice of the Opera Ghost, it is the voice of a broken man, miserable and alone.

She can do nothing for him, now. 

She can only press her lips together to still the sob that is fighting to escape and turn once more, descend the steps to the lake and the little boat, to Raoul. 

He does not say anything when she returns and she thanks him for this with her eyes, he only offers her his hand. She takes it, slipping her fingers into his like they belong there, allows him to help her step onto the little boat. She does not let go of it, not for anything, not while Raoul poles them through the tunnel and not while they make the long, long journey back to the world above. She does not look back, not once, not the entire time. It takes a lifetime, a lifetime of broken-hearted silence as they have to stop to catch their breath, have to support one another in the darkness, his arm around her shoulder to keep him upright, her own around his waist to steady herself, but they make it out. 

They make it to her old dressing room, stumble through the hole in the wall that was once a mirror and into the darkness of Dressing Room Thirteen, unlit and unused. They sink onto their knees into the plush rug, clutching each other like the oddest pair of lovers she’s ever seen, damp and dirty and traumatized but _together,_ and that is enough. 

It is several moments, perhaps hours, perhaps it is a lifetime before they can stand. Raoul pulls her to her feet, presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“I have to get out of this dress,” she whispers, and he turns his back while she tries to undo it, only it is far too complex to do on her own and her hands are shaking too bad to even properly try. “Raoul,” she whispers, “I need your help.” 

And so he helps, undressing her from this wedding gown like the strangest wedding night that wasn’t a wedding night there ever was, unlaces the dress and her corset with gentle fingers, tender hands, leaves the pile of fabric on the floor. She does not even care that she will have to leave the opera house in her undergarments, does not care about any of this, is only thankful to be rid of the treacherous thing, is suddenly so eager to be out of this place that she almost doesn’t notice her vanity as Raoul opens the door, holds his hand out to her. 

But it catches her eye before she can leave, that bright flash of color. A single red rose, still bearing its thorns, tied with a black velvet bow. She crosses to it in a trance, like a dream, and picks it up, careful not to prick herself. It has been so long since he has given her one of these, she had almost forgot the way he used to leave them after every performance. 

With a shock, she realizes that the bow is bearing a ring. For one wild moment her heart stops and she feels she is going to throw up, only she realizes that it is not the thick, black and silver ring she had returned to him, but something infinitely more delicate and beautiful, a promise fraught with happiness and love rather than fear and loathing. It is her engagement ring, more lovely than she remembers it, which she has not seen since he had taken it from her on the night of the Ball. 

 _Oh,_ she thinks, _it’s over._  

Numbly she tries to untie the bow but her fingers are shaking too bad. Raoul is there, then, taking the rose from her hand and staring at it with equal wonderment. He unties the ribbon deftly, slips the ring from it and makes to pocket it, but she stops his hand before he can. Her own is trembling as she offers it to him and he looks at her, that question in his eyes, _are you sure?_ She nods. She has never been more sure of anything in her life. 

His own hand is steady as he catches hers and the shaking stops in his fingers. Gently, sweetly, tenderly he presses a kiss to her knuckles, and slips the ring on her finger. It is, as she suspected all along, a perfect fit. 

“One love, one lifetime,” he murmurs.

“Every night, every morning,” she replies, softer than a breath. 

She takes the rose and the ribbon from him and sets them on the vanity, slips her hand into his and squeezes softly. If she feels the urge to turn back, if she feels like she is leaving something of herself behind as she turns off the lights to Dressing Room Thirteen, she cannot find it. She can only find her freedom, only find revelry in the silence in her head, the absence of music at last as Raoul leads her through the twisting halls of the opera house, through the foyer, out the doors and into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so tired
> 
> thank you for sticking with me, though, and reading this (literally!) 300 page dissertation on why i love raoul de chagny. find me on tumblr @montponine for classics and hyperfixations and more undying love for raoul and christine


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